


Collared

by VelvetMace



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, Case Fic, Complete, Dark, F/M, Humiliation, Lima Syndrome, M/M, Mind control device, Moral Ambiguity, Omniscient!Mycroft, Plotty, Politics, Stockholm Syndrome, Terrorism, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:01:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 83,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelvetMace/pseuds/VelvetMace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where the British Empire is still strong and slavery is her economic backbone, John has become a terrorist for the abolitionist movement. He is caught by Mycroft, enslaved, and given to Sherlock for training. The goal: To test a new kind of slave collar with the power to break even the strongest willed fighter. One that will make even John learn to love being a slave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [This prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5950.html?thread=24178494#t24178494) on the BBC Sherlock kinkmeme.
> 
> * * *
> 
> This is a very morally messy story, with a lot of relativism, nuances, conflicting philosophies, needs and world-views. If you like things black and white, or aren't forgiving of characters with moral faults, you probably aren't going to enjoy this.
> 
> * * *

John Watson carefully poured nails into the metal shaft of the pipe bomb. Reaching in with his forefingers, he grasped the ends of the copper wires that would eventually attach to the mercury switch. He pulled a strip of black electrical tape with his teeth, reached his free hand for the box cutters.

And noticed that his Sig was missing.

“Which ever of you has my gun, you have two seconds to give it back,” he said, spitting away the tape. It crinkled uselessly. Annoyed, he balled up the piece. “It’s not a toy, you idiots.” He stood up and looked around the dismal studio apartment. Though it was noon in Portland, Oregon, the sky was the colour of slate, and a steady drizzle made the surrounding trees and buildings look foggy. John did a double take on the window.

Oh, god, it was amateur hour in here.

“And who opened the hell opened the blinds?” asked John. He limped over to the window and pulled down the mini blinds again. There was little difference in the light level. James and Kirkpatrick looked up from the foam they were shaping to eventually secure the bomb in the cardboard box. James eyes glanced towards the toilet. 

“Duncan did it,” said the former slave.

All his team were former slaves. That was the one thing that he'd insisted on when he took on projects. Only slaves understood viscerally the situation their brethren were in. James and Duncan had been slaves since childhood. James due to being orphaned, Duncan from birth. Kirkpatrick was stripped of his citizenship in debtors' prison. All were ready to stick it to the man who had stuck it so hard and heavy to them.

“Duncan!” John shouted through the door. “What did I say about security? Leave the blinds alone!”

“Fuck off, Limey.” It was muffled by the wooden door, but full of anger.

John was about to say something more, but at that moment the front door burst open, and the apartment was teeming with men in black body armour. Imperialist Guard — the Crown’s not-so-secret police. James and Kirkpatrick leaped to their feet, scattering to flee a hail of AK-47 fire. The room seemed to erupt in noise and bits of foam. Instinctively John dived behind the kitchen counter. He heard nothing but his heart pounding in his chest.

They'd been made. How? Who'd ratted them out?

Where was the goddamn Sig?

Too late. The soldiers poked their gun muzzles over the counter and down at John's head. He winced and raised his hands to either side, expecting the sudden but brief pain of a bullet tearing through his brain. But it didn't come. Instead one of the soldiers handed off his weapon and then grabbed John's wrists, twisting him around and securing them behind his back. He was pressed down until he lay on his stomach on the kitchen linoleum.

“Target identified and secured,” one of the guard said. “Two dead.”

Another voice: “Strike that, they've got collar scars. Mark them down as property loss.”

John heard the bathroom door open up. He turned his head to look. To John's surprise and anger, Duncan walked out with a smug smile on his freckled mug and John's Sig hanging by the guard off his finger. _Traitor,_ he thought, swallowing his surprise.

“Yeah, that's him,” Duncan said. His accent was faintly southern. That should have been a tip off. The southern colonies had always been less sympathetic to abolitionism. But Duncan was a runaway himself, how could he do this? He couldn’t possibly want to go back into slavery, could he? One of the guard was now latching a standard issue collar around the boy's neck. The boy winced slightly as the collar was fixed in place.

John considered a biting retort, but a sudden commotion alerted him that he situation had changed. The soldier next to him stood up and saluted. He forgot what he was going to say, in favour of sizing up this new development.

A new voice, English and upperclass by the accent, rang out. “Now where is he? Ah, there you are!”

A smartly dressed gentleman stepped around the counter. He appeared to be in his early 40's, with slightly thinning brown hair and an expensive three-piece suit. He was using an umbrella like a cane, which suggested that it wasn't actually meant for the poor weather.

“John H. Watson, British national, citizen and Army doctor until two years ago. Unrepentant abolitionist terrorist ever since.” With an offhanded gesture, he signalled John be lifted up to standing. “I'm Mycroft Holmes, Intelligence Consultant to His Highness, King of England and Regent of the Civilised Realm. Good to finally catch up to you.”

John said nothing. He'd never heard of an intelligence consultant. It sounded suspiciously off the books.

“Not much to look at, now, are you.” The voice was easy, almost kind sounding despite the words. Smug. John could sense a psychological agenda behind it. Impressing on me his importance, John thought.

“I wasn't aware that you needed to be impressed,” said John. “I'll try better in the future.”

“Oh, but I _am_ impressed,” said Holmes, faux contrite. “Did I give you the impression I wasn't? Forgive me. I would hardly be here if you were a run of the mill terrorist. I have better things to be doing.”

“Well then,” said John, defiantly.

“You've been very busy on this trip. Since you've come to visit this lovely colony, you have coordinated the destruction of two slave records centres, an intake facility and a collar distribution warehouse. There are now over twenty thousand slaves with no proof of ownership, and another five hundred crowding the jails, waiting for their collars when they should already have been sold and set to work. Thanks to you, the Oregon Colony has taken a rather severe hit to its economy. Taxes are down. Naughty, naughty.” He waggled his finger.

Mycroft then stepped closer and reached up a hand to touch the front of John's throat. “I can see why the property might like to strike back, but what would make a freeman like yourself take up this cause?”

“Slaves have as much right as us to their lives. They aren't property. We are all human. We are all equal.”

“You are far too smart to be this naive, Watson,” said Holmes, patting John's cheek gently. “The British Empire runs on three things: Loyalty, Ingenuity, and Labour. Without slaves, and the revenue they generate, our economy would fall apart. Our standard of living would crumble. The world would be plunged into a new dark age of chaos.”

“Codswallop,” said John. “This is morally wrong. Who decides which humans are worthy of full rights and which aren't?”

Mycroft leaned forward, his brows raised with condescending patience. “ _I_ decide that. John.” The switch to first names sent a shiver down John's back.

He reached out a hand to one of the black clad men, who passed him a silvery object. A collar. John suddenly shook and tried to pull away from his captors, but was held still. “Forgive the ordinary workmanship, this is only a temporary collar. The real one will be much more sophisticated.”

John blanched. “No. You can't strip me of my citizenship like this. I haven't been tried.”

 

Mycroft's brow rose. “Oh, but records can be manufactured as easily as they are destroyed.”

“Don't do this. My family has friends --”

“Who will be far too embarrassed by your behaviour to speak up for a black sheep like you. And really, it’s only a matter of time before you’d have been put in one. You’ve been caught red handed, John. There’s no question of your guilt.”

John tried to squirm out of the way as Holmes reached forward and put the collar around his neck. It was cold and solid seeming and it latched tightly around his throat just below his adam's apple. He hissed as the needles entered his spine, just between the C4 and C5 vertebrae. 

Mycroft smiled pleasantly at him. “Did you even know what that facility makes? The one whose CEO you were attempting to blow up with this crude device?” he pointed his chin at the pipe bomb.

“New innovations in collars.”

“Yes. Internal collars they are called,” said Holmes with that gentle smile again. “The one we have on you now is crude but effective. Three levels of enforcement: pain for the minor offences. Unconsciousness for more unruly ones. And finally death, for when the other two fail to make a proper impression on the slave. Not very nuanced, I think you'll agree. And rather prone to occasional malfunction, which has at times killed perfectly useful slaves.”

“Barbaric.”

“The new collars are surgically implanted. They can't be accidentally set off by impact or a poorly tuned radio. They also can't be removed by hacking. They use the slave's own brain to help regulate their behaviour. Imagine it, John! A perfectly content and happy slave. There would be no need to inflict painful punishment, or expensive death.” He touched John's face again. Gently. Lovingly. “Even an unrepentant terrorist like you could be salvaged into a useful, productive asset for the crown.”

“I'd rather die.” John gritted his teeth.

“Well,” said Holmes backing off. “I imagine you would. Which is why we don't offer slaves those sorts of choices.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a remote. “Hold him steady, I don't want him injured when he falls.”

John opened his mouth to say something, then Holmes pressed the button and the room telescoped away.

* * *

“Now, John, hold out your arms and touch your nose with your forefingers.” Dr. Riner smiled unctuously.

John gritted his teeth. What he wanted to do was to rip the leads from his hospital-gowned body. He wanted to jam his fingers up into the incision at the base of his head and yank out the wires that now threaded through his brain. What he wanted to do was to grab the metal tray and smash it against this Colonial doctor's face and then storm his way up to the viewing gallery and strangle Mycroft Holmes.

What he did was hold out his arms and touch his nose with his forefingers. Immediately he felt a mild wave of euphoria. His body relaxed into it.

“As you can see by his heartbeat, complying with orders reduces the stress to his body.”

“Will it effect his judgement or his abilities?” asked Holmes.

“It's non-narcotic and localised, it consists of electrical stimulation of certain centres of his brain. He should remain sharp and capable. However it's not wholly without risk.”

“Such as.”

“Addiction mainly. Psychological addiction, I should clarify. A slave can get used to being ordered about, they may require it or become despondent. On the other hand, you'll need to make sure that he's given a reasonable number of orders to fill each day, if you want the collar to have its proper effect.”

“And what happens if he chooses not to comply to orders. Will it punish him as well?”

Dr. Riner turned back to his patient. “John, heel!”

John gasped and fell to his knees. His skin was on fire. All thought left him and he was at mercy to the agony. It lasted the space of a second, then his skin cooled and he found himself on all fours, sweating and staring at the tiled floor. “While pleasure is automatic,” Dr. Riner said. “There is no way to predict how much time a slave needs to comply with an order, therefore punishment must be induced by specific verbal command. The actual wording may be changed to suit the owner's preference. I suggest something that is unlikely to be casually mentioned, but not easily forgotten.”

“Forgotten, would that really be a problem?” Mycroft frowned. “Is positive feedback really that effective?”

“You'd be surprised!” Dr. Riner grinned. “So far with my other test subjects, punishment was not required after the first week.”

Mycroft brought his hands together in a soundless clap. “Ah! Fascinating results!”

“This is the wave of the future, Mr. Holmes,” said Dr. Riner proudly. “Clean, effective, and best of all _ethical_ slavery. A life of service and pleasure instead of service and pain. I really don't understand why the abolitionists targeted my technology.”

“I imagine it's because it rather undermines their message. Why would slaves wish to be freed if this is what it entails?”

“You're right,” said Dr. Riner. To John he said, “Up.”

Shaking John rose up and got his expected burst of calming pleasure. He gritted his teeth as soon as the brief bliss was over.

“What is the security on the device,” asked Mycroft Holmes. “What's to keep him from simply ordering himself – or from taking orders from unauthorised personnel?”

“The software is keyed to his own recognition centres. Once authorisation is set, he will recognise visual and verbal commands from those programmed to be in authority over him. He will not, however, recognise written orders, nor second hand ones. This might be inconvenient, but better that than allowing loopholes that could be exploited.”

“Excellent.”

Dr. Riner frowned. “Tell me,” he said, almost reluctantly. “There's a rumour that John is a freeman. When I went in to operate I saw only very recent marks on his spine from a collar.”

“He's newly acquired. Did John tell you about the pipe bomb he was planning on killing you with? This man is one of the most blazon abolitionists it's been my pleasure to apprehend.”

Dr. Riner shook his head and jumped back away from John, looking at him for the first time as if he might be dangerous.

John considered reinforcing this, but the memory of the pain was too fresh. He needed a plan.

“Well then,” said Mycroft. “I don't think the rumour about his status is something that needs to make its way into your report. Besides, having data on someone who is not prejudiced by prior slave conditioning is invaluable, wouldn't you think?”

Dr. Riner nodded. “Absolutely.”

“When can I take him back with me?”

Dr. Riner reached over and began disconnecting the leads. “Any time. I'll leave you a sheet on the aftercare for the incision, but otherwise he can be treated like any other property.” He smiled up to the viewing gallery. “It's good to see you in person, Mr. Holmes. And thank you so much for the support with my research.”

Behind the glass, Mycroft smiled down. “No, no. Thank _you_.

* * *

Mycroft had a chartered a jet for the trip back to London.

John hoped to use the confusion of the airport as a way of dislodging the man long enough to send a coded message out. He needed to let his people know to go to ground. He'd been held incommunicado for four days, who knows what had happened in his absence. But they bypassed the main terminal entirely and drove right into a hanger farther down the access road.

John did his best to seem invisible, expressionless, watching the seamless dance of Mycroft's underlings. It seemed almost choreographed. As Mycroft exited the limo, four black clad minions (and John could only describe them as such, if they had rank or insignia, it wasn't visible on their uniforms) swarmed around him. A languid reach in one direction was answered immediately with a mobile being offered. A tap to Mycroft's temple and other people raced on some task or other. Mycroft managed to give the impression of relaxed, almost lackadaisical composure while dealing with one situation after another.

For the most sake Mycroft ignored John, allowing him to hang back a few feet, seemingly uninterested in what he was looking at. John scanned for holes in the security. The hanger itself was large, and other than the limo it contained a single Lear Jet and not much else. Attempting to run to its wide open doorway would invite attention, but smaller movements, standing farther and farther off against one of the walls, for example, seemed to elicit no alarm. The minions seemed to dismiss his presence entirely, as though they thought him of no significance. As well they might if they considered him a slave rather than a prisoner. While Mycroft instructed the porter on the handling of his luggage, it seemed for just a moment that no one was watching at all.

John drifted nonchalantly towards an unmarked door.

“John, stop,” said Mycroft casually. He hadn't even turned around. The porter craned his head over Mycroft's shoulder to look at him curiously.

Startled, John held still and then tightened his lips as the thing in his head rewarded him. Distracting, annoying. Like a pat on the head every time he behaved like a dog. He didn't want to feel good every time he followed this man's orders.

“Come along then,” Mycroft said a moment later, finally turning around. Then, glancing at the door John had been considering, he let his lips quirk up. “You wouldn't have gotten far. That door is locked, and even if it weren't it only leads to an office.”

John gave nothing away with his expression. He had no illusions of escape at this point, but an office had a phone. He had a duty to alert his people to go to ground.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. “You might want to take a look at this before you do anything rash.” He reached out and a minion handed him a rolled up paper.

The headline read: LARGEST ABOLITIONIST BUST IN LAST 25 YEARS. In smaller letters it went on to say that twenty three citizens had been apprehended and over a hundred runaway slaves had been liquidated in a series of raids. Liquidated. Killed. Mycroft finger slid down the column until it reached John Watson's name. “You've made it to the papers. Congratulations. Your fifteen minutes of fame.”

John hung his head. God. His family must have seen that. 

Out of masochism, he read the article and silently checked off people who he'd worked with, liked, trusted. Dead. Dead. Dead. Most had been slaves. As property they'd been simply disposed of on site, no trial, no chance. Not even a grave. Those weren't used for medical research would have their useful organs removed and then burned to ash in the colonial run crematoriums. All their dreams and hopes simply ended. Friends. Gone without a trace.

“I do so love a happy ending,” said Mycroft, unironically. “Good triumphs over evil. Justice wins out. Very satisfying. But I suppose you wouldn't see it that way. Yet. Give it time, John.” He clapped John's shoulder in a sympathetic way.

John turned his head away.

Mycroft shrugged and stepped toward the plane. “Step lively, John. Here we go.”

Two bright young flight attendants stood by to help them up the steps of the Lear Jet. Mycroft jauntily climbed up into the plane. John followed more slowly, his sore leg twinging with every step. Inside, Mycroft had settled into one of the posh cream coloured chairs. A laptop was flipped open in front of him and he was already tapping away.

“Sit down,” said Mycroft, offhandedly pointing at the seat opposite.

John took it. Breathed. One more followed order.

“I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but I'm afraid I won't be keeping you, John. The nature of my work really precludes the kind of energy needed to properly train you.” 

John's breath hitched in. Perhaps the only silver lining to this whole degrading episode had been the small comfort that someone, at least, wanted him. Much as he loathed and feared Mycroft, he was a known evil. At least there had been some sign of affection from the man, a sense that under his calculating demeanour he still recognised John's personhood. He'd heard stories of the trauma of the auction block. The embarrassment. The uncertainty. John held off panic with sheer determination.

Mycroft glanced up at him and gave a tight smile. “Now, none of that. You'll be in good hands.”

He turned the laptop around and showed John a picture of a striking young man, about thirty, with dark hair in loose sloppy curls.

“This is my brother, Sherlock.” Mycroft turned the laptop back around to face himself. “Your new owner. Outside of myself, he's the most brilliant man you'll ever meet. And also one of the most difficult. You won't be able to live up to his standards – just accept that – but if you work diligently, it's possible you might be able to keep on his good side.”

John couldn't suppress a shudder.

“As you seem not to shirk at challenges, I'm certain it's not beyond your ability to deal with,” Mycroft gave him an encouraging smile. “It will be your duty assist him in all his endeavours. Make sure he has the equipment he needs, cooperate in any and all experiments. You will also take care of any appointments, run errands and the like.”

“Be his P.A.” John felt his panic rolling back. Sherlock sounded like a right pretentious git, but John could work around that. Perhaps the professor would be absentminded enough to let John do his own thing.

“In addition to that, you'll be responsible for his domestic needs: preparing regular meals, seeing that both he and his flat are clean and presentable. He has a distressing habit of neglecting his health in favour of his intellectual pursuits.”

“So I'll be his manservant, as well,” said John, flatly.

“And should he become injured, as he is wont to do, you will tend to his injuries.”

“His doctor.”

“And finally,” Mycroft hesitated a tick. “You will provide any sort of diversion, companionship, or stress relief he might be in need of.”

John stiffened. It was common for slaves to provide sexual services for their masters. Since the proliferation of birth control, it wasn't even considered scandalous. However usually it fell on much younger slaves to perform that odious task. It hadn't even occurred to John that he might be called on. 

He felt faintly nauseous.

Mycroft coughed a slight laugh. “Of course, I don't know why I'm saying this to you. Sherlock will instruct you as he wishes. As a slave it's your duty to perform in _any_ manner he requests.” Mycroft met his eye. “But as he is unused to having a servant, it will be somewhat on you to remind him of what you can do for him. A certain amount of proactive spirit wouldn't go amiss. Remember, any order he gives will be an opportunity for happiness for you. The more useful you can make yourself, the better off everyone will be.”

John turned away and looked out the window. If he spoke now, he'd likely break down in tears or punch Mycroft. Either way, the consequences were more than John wanted to face.

“I see,” said Mycroft after a while. “You have much to think about, and I have much to do, so let's not disturb each other for a while, shall we.”

* * *

John could see why Mycroft thought Sherlock needed a servant, the flat was a mess. Books, papers, clothes, and take out boxes cluttered up every available horizontal surface. The sitting room was navigable by a series of narrow paths. From the smell, John suspected there might be a dead mouse or two rotting under one of the stacks.

Sherlock himself was marginally more presentable. His clothes were extremely expensive, though a bit rumpled. His face was shaved. His hair had clearly grown out of whatever fashionable cut or styling it once had. Despite this, he managed to have a feline sort of attractiveness.

“What is it this time,” Sherlock growled from the sofa. “I'm busy.” John couldn't see what he was busy with.

Mycroft delicately removed a layer of detritus from one of the chairs and sat down. “I'm aware of that. I've come to give you some aid.”

Sherlock raised a single brow. “Really, are you planning on helping with my ink drip analysis? Would you mind terribly shopping around for pens?”

Mycroft smile deepened. “Better than that, I've brought you an assistant.”

For the second time, Sherlock glanced in John's direction. The first time had been a momentary appraisal when he walked in the door, during which, true to Mycroft's warning, he'd found John clearly lacking.

John for his part was attempting to encourage that notion. He listened to everything, took in everything, but gave away nothing. All he needed was for Mycroft to leave him, and John imagined he could make a run for it. Perhaps Sherlock would forget about him, the way he had apparently forgot about the half-full container of curry noodles on the table.

Sherlock tsked. “You're attempts at manipulation have reached a new low. Are you even trying to pass him off as a slave? Why bother.”

“I'm not trying to pass him off as a slave. He is one.”

Sherlock leaped up and walked over to John. “Well, I think you are a fool,” he slipped a finger between the collar and the back of John's neck. “This is a dummy, a prop.”

“Yes, it is,” Mycroft's smiled didn't waver. 

Sherlock stood back and frowned. He held John's face between his hands and moved it one way, then another. John for his part stared back and considered an impertinent remark. _Is he going to check my teeth?_

“His neck is evenly tanned. His eyes have been scanning the room since he entered, looking for weapons, exits. He hates you, which means that he can't be all bad,” Sherlock paused. “He's had recent surgery to the back of his head. Too clean for injury, no sign of infection.”

“It's the new collar they've been designing out in Oregon.”

“A collar seated in the brain,” said Sherlock. “What does it do?” 

“It uses positive reinforcement to ensure behaviour.” Mycroft stood up and joined his brother. “I thought it might pique your interest. John here is experimental, one of the first batch to receive one. It's all a bit of a mystery how well it will work, though Dr. Riner assured me he'd had good results with others. I would very much appreciate if you put John here through his paces. Find the flaws in the design. Discover the advantages. I'll expect weekly reports on how well he's doing.”

“I knew there would be strings attached – and hold on, I know you,” said Sherlock, grabbing John's face again. “I've seen you quite recently. You are John Watson, the Oregonian abolitionist.”

John couldn't stop a smug smile. “Not just Oregon,” he said.

“Looking to see what you could blow up in my flat?”

“I could blow up quite a bit,” said John. “Or short of that, there are quite a few things I could improvise as weapons.”

Sherlock, far from being appalled or intimidated, smiled fiercely. “You fancy yourself to be a dangerous man, don't you.”

“I don't fancy myself to be anything. But you were right earlier. I'm not a slave. I haven't been tried or sentenced. Your brother simply upped and decided to stick a collar on me. So, I'm having a hard time recognising your legal or moral superiority over me.” He tsked.

“So this is your definition of assistance?” said Sherlock, rounding on Mycroft. “A fanatical terrorist, unbroken, in an experimental collar? I wasn't aware that my problem was that I slept too well.”

Mycroft didn't appear perturbed. “If you don't want him, I can put him to some other use.” He glanced at John. “Come along, John. Back to the car.”

John took a step back towards the door and then sniffed in a breath as his implant shot yet another dose of happiness through him. He fisted his hands.

“Wait --what was that,” said Sherlock sharply.

“The collar. When he obeys even the tiniest of orders, it gives him small amount of electrical stimulation to his pleasure centres.”

“Really?” Sherlock squared himself to John. “Look at me.”

John looked at him with stretched patience. To his surprise nothing happened. No pleasure. Of course, Sherlock wasn't his master.

 “I haven't signed him over yet. John lift your arm.”

“No,” said John, still staring at Sherlock.

“Heel, John,” said Mycroft, impatiently.

John bit back a scream and leaned against the wall. He nearly tripped on a bundled stack of newspapers. For a second, agony rippled through his flesh. There didn't seem to be a nerve in his body that didn't hurt. Then it was over and he was breathless.

“John,” said Mycroft, more patiently. “Lift your arm.”

“No,” John repeated, angrier.

“Heel, John.” Agony. John was sitting on the stack. His heart raced.

“Lift your arm!” barked Mycroft.

John lifted his arm. Bliss. He shuddered.

“Stand up.”

John stood.

“At attention. Turn to the left. To the right. Clap your hands.” Mycroft ordered rapid fire. John barely had time to follow one order before the next was given. On and on. All simple things. Meaningless. The pleasure assaulted his brain. Insidious. Addicting.

“Please, stop,” begged John. His muscles were so loose, he feared he was going to collapse.

“Kneel,” said Mycroft.

John fell to his knees. He didn't even feel the bruises over the warmth and well-being that suffused him. All rational thought had long since left. He was practically a puddle. 

He felt a hand tenderly stroke his hair, looked up and saw Mycroft's sleeve. “There, there, good boy.”

“I'll take him,” said Sherlock, sharply. “Transfer him to me.”

John dared to look up at him. Sherlock had his chin cupped in his hand and a look of avid interest on his face.

“I thought you might,” said Mycroft. “Just, Sherlock, try not to break him.”

* * *

Sherlock didn't break him. In fact, almost as soon as Mycroft left, he seemed to forget about owning John at all. He answered a text message, then started pawing through the rubbish by the couch. A moment later he pulled a nicotine patch out of a tan box. Slapping it onto his forearm he settled back for what appeared to be a midmorning nap. 

John stood for a few minutes in the clean spot by the door, expecting some sort of orders, which never came. Then, inevitably, John started to feel like complete idiot.

“Would you like me to – “

“Shhh,” said Sherlock.

John stood, shifting a bit wearily on his aching right leg, getting rapidly more bored. After about fifteen minutes, he decided to take Mycroft's suggestion and become proactive. If he was stuck here, it would be nice to have a place where he could at least sit down. This place was a _heap_.

He carefully picked his way through the mess and explored the various rooms in the flat, looking for a good place to start what promised to be a mammoth clean up project. There were two floors: the sitting room, kitchen, toilet and bedroom resided downstairs; up a narrow set of wooden stairs in the back was an peaked attic space that had been converted into a laboratory. Turn-of-the-prior-century flasks and bunsen burners shared bench space with a very expensive looking high-powered microscope. There were shelves of books and folders, filing cabinets, and a plethora of devices from various eras gathering dust in the corners. 

Mycroft hadn't really explained the nature of Sherlock's work, but John was beginning to suspect it might be “mad scientist.”

A question popped into John's head as he looked around. “Where am I supposed to sleep?” he asked himself as he made his way back down to the sitting room. There was only the single bedroom and single bed. He supposed he could sleep on the sofa. But then what of his things? He looked around for a place to put his meagre possessions. The Imperialist Guard had confiscated everything of his former life: tools, clothes, computer, mobile. Mycroft, in a fit of miserliness, had given him a spare change of clothes and an inexpensive canvas bag to put them in. That was fine for the day, but he couldn’t simply wear the same two shirts over and over again. Clearly, Sherlock was expected to provide the rest of his basic needs. But would he? For someone who has just been handed a major responsibility, Sherlock sure wasn’t taking it that seriously. And why would he? He clearly didn’t care for himself.

To offset the growing desperation, John explored the kitchen. The refrigerator was empty except for several shelves of rather contagious looking petri dishes and a half-empty pint of milk sitting in the door. Mycroft had fed him a decent sized breakfast that morning, but John realised with a twist of his gut, that from now on meals weren’t assured. Not that John would have really trusted anything that came out of this kitchen in it's current state. 

There was a rather bad smell coming from the overloaded sink. John stared at it for the better part of a minute. Then reached into one of the drawers, found a pair of rubber gloves and a sponge, and began taking apart the mess.

_He's much more likely to realise I have needs if I don't just act like an inanimate object,_ John rationalised. _Perhaps I can pretend this is a paying job?_ He worked his way through the dishes, then began clearing the counters, filling up a rubbish bag with long-gone take out. Cinching the bag closed he headed to set it out on the curb for collection.

 

He paused a moment at the door, bag in hand, waiting for Sherlock to say something. Acknowledge the fact that he was working, or ask him where he was going. Something.

Sherlock didn't open his eyes. His mouth had gaped open and he looked like he was fast asleep. John sighed and turned around.

“Skip's at the bottom of the stairs through the rear door. Just behind the fence. Put the rubbish there.” 

John spun back. Sherlock hadn't opened his eyes.

“Thanks,” said John. Shivering, he took the rubbish down. 

There was a brief flare of pleasure as he put the garbage where it should be. It was the first order that Sherlock had given him, but it wouldn’t be the last. John stood for a minute outside looking at the foot traffic down the alleyway in back of the building. A cat shrieked out annoyance and went dashing out in front of him before making a series of jumps over a fence and out of sight. Christ, he was spooked.

John turned around and saw Sherlock behind him. He jumped, momentarily scared out of his wits. Sherlock just glanced his way, casually. He was wearing a long coat and fastening a scarf around his throat.

“John, I need to nip out for a bit. Do you have any needs? Food, bedding, clothes?”

“I am a bit hungry,” John admitted, getting his composure back.

Sherlock nodded. “I'll be gone a few hours. Feed yourself and buy whatever you feel you need. If you return before I do, knock on 221A and ask Mrs. Hudson to let you in. She has a key.” He turned around and headed back inside. “While you are at it, pick up some pad thai from down the street. Enough for two, we can have it for dinner.”

“Wait, wait,” said John, following him through the hall and out the other door. “I haven't any money.”

“None at all?” said Sherlock, looking dismayed.

“I'm a slave. They don't let us keep bank accounts. We don't get paid.”

Sherlock sighed. “Pshh. Very well, take this,” he handed John a debit card. “The pin is easy to remember. First four digits of Eurer's constant – not _e_ , the constant, mind you. People tend to mix the two up.”

“I don't know whoever's constant.”

Sherlock looked at him like he was being astonishingly idiotic. “Five – seven – seven – two. Hopefully your memory is a little better than your maths. Well, good-bye!” And with that and a dramatic swish of his coat, he strode away.

John stood, numbly watching him until he climbed into the back of a cab. 

Then he looked at the card in his hand. His brows rose up. Clearly, Sherlock knew even less about being a master than John knew about being a slave.

He let out a roaring laugh of relief, then began walking happily enough to the nearest cash point.

* * *

Five minutes later, John was in the Underground's men's toilet with a cool £250 making a nice wad in his trouser pocket. So far, so smooth.

Using a paperclip, he picked the lock to the dummy collar that Mycroft had put on him. It was perhaps the most nerve wracking moment, since it didn't look good. And sure enough, he was interrupted mid pick by a slightly alarmed looking gentleman.

“My mate's idea of a joke,” John said apologetically, then made a show of how loose and obviously not imbedded into his spinal cord the collar was. “It's fake. Bachelor party wouldn't you know. Proverbial ball and chain and whatnot.”

The other just nodded and went off to pee in one of the urinals, relieved in more than one sense.

John sucked in a deep breath and tried again. This time he was able to feel a snap and the lock opened. He felt the pressure off his throat and rolled his head in relief. Running his finger over his neck he felt the two tell-tale scabs from his brief encounter with a real collar. Yeah, he'd have to be careful about that. With any luck he wouldn't form too obvious a scar. Biting his lip he pulled up his shirt collar, since the last thing he needed was to tempt fate even more. The fake collar was tossed into the nearest rubbish bin, where it sank until it was lost in the nest of paper towels. 

Then John left the toilet, bought himself an oyster card and “lost” the registration. He then took a slightly round about route to Bart's, his old alma mater. With any luck at all there would still be someone there that he recognised and was on good terms with. If he _truly_ got lucky, that friendly person would be a brain surgeon.

He got half his wish. Mike Stanford was working in the teaching end of the hospital. If ever there was a friendly face, it was Mike's. The two of them had had some pretty crazy times back in their uni days. Mike didn't have access to the PET or CAT scanners and they dared not try an MRI with wires running through John's brain, but there was an elderly X-ray machine in the radiology classroom. Mike set it up while John lay on the table.

“So.” Mike said as he positioned the arm. “What, John. Was fighting guerillas in Afghanistan not dangerous enough for you? You had to go to the Americas and start up a war there, too? You should have stayed here, with me. We could have set up a practice together.”

“It's not something I wanted to do,” John replied. “It's something I _had_ to do. Surely you must know some slaves, Mike. You can't think that they are truly lesser people than you and I.”

“You mean lesser than me and me,” said Mike. “Hold still.” He ducked behind the shield and snapped the picture. “You aren't a citizen anymore.”

“I wasn't convicted, Mike. I never had my day in court to argue my reasoning.” Mike moved the X-ray arm and John sat up, shrugging off the lead coat. “And think about it, if someone like me can be just arbitrarily made into a slave – it could happen to anyone.”

“Anyone caught trying to blow up a hospital. I read the papers, John. Can't say I always believe them, but in this case, the proof’s pretty strong. How could you do it? I just can't wrap my head around you being a master criminal. Yet...”

John tsked. “It's a war. A real war, not like Afghanistan. A war of principles. Of decency.”

Mike turned his head. “It's not like I'm a huge fan of slavery. I'll give you that,” he said. “You were always a very decent person. Apparently, you are also a bit of a blooming idiot. Won't your owner be wondering what's up with you?”

“I don't think so,” said John. “I was more or less foisted on him, and he sent me off with a debit card and smile as soon as he could. I suspect he wanted me to take off. Solves him the problem of figuring out what to do with me.”

Mike put both hands down on the table and levelled an unsmiling look at him. “What are you going to do? Even if you can get that collar out of you, your name's in the registry. If you get pulled over for any reason at all, you'll be back in a collar again, if you aren't just summarily executed. Don't you think you'd better go back to your master, and see if you can argue your way back to citizenship? I've heard that occasionally it can happen.”

John laughed bitterly. “Not for me it won't. I've lived off the grid for two years, I can do it again. If I cross the channel, there are some people in France I know. They can help me reestablish myself.”

Mike sighed. “Well you can't say I didn't warn you. Let's look at the film.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock from the door. “Let’s.”


	2. Chapter 2

John froze. _Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck._

“I--” said John, then shut up because really, what was there to say?

Sherlock walked slowly into the classroom. His eyes were intense, scanning everything, then settling on John with cold detachment.

“I see your collar just fell off into a rubbish bin. Let me guess – the men's room at the Baker Street station.” John winced at the sarcasm. “That was the excuse you were going to give me, isn't it? That you were looking for jammies and just happened to walk into Bart's by mistake. You mistook the X-ray for a deli?”

“God,” said John. “No, I – no.”

“No excuse then?” Sherlock's lips twitched. “In any case, I won the bet. Mycroft thought you'd make a bee-line to the contentment and put as much distance between you and me as possible. It would be the logical course of action. You have compatriots scattered in many countries; the latest raid hardly made a dent in their numbers. They'd be more than willing to shelter a slave. So long as I wasn't around to order you about, collar or no, you'd have been free to resume your antisocial behaviour as before.

“I, on the other hand, knew that your body horror would trump your good sense. You'd stick closer to home, attempt to find some way of undoing what was done to you. You graduated from Bart's, you might find a sympathetic ear among the doctors here, especially old chums. And here you are. As predicted.”

Much as John didn't want to, he felt a rush of admiration. Sherlock had barely met him, and yet he _knew_ him.

Mike looked from Sherlock to John. “Listen, Mr. Holmes – I didn't realise.”

Sherlock glared at him. “Of course you did, Mike. It's not like John here was being reticent about his status. Helping property escape is considered theft.”

Mike blanched. “Mr. Holmes. Please. I didn't know he was yours. It'll cost me my job if you report this.”

Sherlock suddenly beamed out a smile, like he'd been given marvellous news. “Oh, I wouldn't want that to happen, Mike, would I? Who would owe me such a _large_ favour, if I turned you in?”

Mike breathed a sigh of relief and leaned against the X-ray table, hand over his chest.

It was John's turn to look from one to the other. “You know each other?” he asked.

“I'm a regular here,” said Sherlock. “Mike helps me out on occasions. As he has now. Let's see those films. I'm as curious as you to know what they've done to your brain.”

Mike pulled out the developed X-ray and put it up on the light board. John looked at his skull. There, obscenely visible were sixteen threads, kinked up as they followed some convoluted path through the grey matter. At the end of each was a small arrow shaped capsule. John pressed his lips together, not wanting to acknowledge what he was seeing.

“Hmm,” said Sherlock. “See this bit,” he pointed to the capsule. “One way delivery system. It's designed to open up and dig into the grey matter if the thread is pulled back. And this deep into the brain, normal surgery would cause tremendous damage. I'm afraid removing your collar is impossible, John. If you survived the process, which is unlikely, you'd be rendered a vegetable.”

“He's right,” said Mike. “No responsible surgeon will touch that. Holmes, I wasn't aware you could read X-rays.”

“No, but I can read a brochure,” he pulled a glossy tri-fold pamphlet out of his coat pocket. “However, it's one thing to look at a graphic and another to actually see the real thing.” He leaned admiringly in on the X-ray.

John turned away. He thought he was going to throw up.

“So are you satisfied of your status, John? Or are we going to have to do this again tomorrow?”

John clenched his fists. “What choice do I have?”

“None at all,” replied Sherlock. “Except the choice to be stupid. And for some reason Mycroft thinks you are misguided rather than mentally ill. I'm rather inclined to accept his judgement on that score, though it might be wishful thinking on my part.” Sherlock glanced at his mobile. “Let's go home. I have actual work to do.” He headed back to the door. “Oh, and you can debit my account for the X-ray, Mike. Wrap up any loose ends. Make it look neat.”

Mike nodded and seemed more than ready to quit the whole matter.

* * *

“So, that's it,” said John, following Sherlock out into the hall. “We go back and it's like this never happened?” He felt relieved but also oddly confused. Not that he wanted to be punished, but that Sherlock would be so completely forgiving didn't make any sense to him. “You set me up, I fell into your trap.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, don't play the victim. You could have done exactly what I told you to do, bought yourself a nice shirt and decent lunch and then continued your domestic endeavours until I returned. It was absolutely in your power to be the boring-but-good slave everyone seems to crave. Just because you didn't and I knew you wouldn't doesn't mean you didn't have a choice. Man up to your decisions.” 

“I don't know where I stand with you!” said John, frustrated. He stopped in his tracks. “Do you _want_ me to rebel? Does that make me more interesting? Is my life a game to you?”

Sherlock turned on his heel, his coat flying dramatically around him. In two long paces he was an inch from John's face. “ _Everyone's_ life is a game to me. _My_ life is a game.” He backed off. “To think of it any other way is to give in to the soul crushing tedium of the ordinary. Do I find your plight entertaining? Yes, I do. I freely admit it. You've given me an afternoon's diversion. Will I become bored of you? I don't know. Probably in time.” He stood up very tall and looked down his nose. “And what do _you_ want of me? You seem to have expectations that I'm not living up to. Would you like me to behave like a typical master? Do you crave more immediate gratification? Easily done. Heel, John!”

John knew what was going to happen a second before it did, but it didn't make the pain any more tolerable. He bit his lip and held his breath and rode out the agony. As the sensation retreated he became acutely aware of two medical students at the far end of the hall looking his way. He threw up a hand to ward them away before they decided their assistance was needed. If there was anything worse than the pain itself, it was the humiliation of being chastised in public. 

“Was that enough of that?” asked Sherlock, “Or would you suggest I do it again? After all, running away, no matter how forgone the results, is still a serious breach of my trust.”

“No. It's enough.”

“Predictable. Cab is this way.”

John followed Sherlock in silence for a few minutes. Gradually he worked his way mentally past the shock of being caught and some of the details wormed their way up to his attention.

“How did you know I'd left the collar in the Baker Street Tube's men's room.”

Sherlock stopped abruptly and tapped his finger against the waist of John's jacket. “See that dark stripe? It looks like it's wet, but it's not. From the particularly pungent oder, it's a smeared drop of commercial grade liquid soap commonly used in the Underground loo. You used the toilet not ten minutes before I left, there is little reason you'd need to go again so soon. Obviously your leaning over the counter wasn't to wash your hands, therefore your goal was the mirror. You would not have bothered looking at yourself, unless you thought it might aid your flight. You are missing the collar you wore when I met you, it would take some effort to remove it. Ergo, that's where you lost it. The Baker Street Station is the closest to my flat. And there we have it: a small matter of connecting the dots.”

“You got all that from this little stain?” John was flabbergasted. “That's … that's _amazing._ ”

“Really?” Sherlock smiled.

“It's like a superpower.”

“I wouldn't go that far. It was simply being observant.” Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at it. “Also, I cheated a bit.” He turned the screen so that John could see it. There was a map with a star over Bart's hospital. “Your collar includes GPS tracking.”

John blanched. “You mean... if I'd gone straight to my friends on the continent instead of doing the foolish thing and stopping by Bart's --”

“Mycroft would have gathered up another abolitionist cell to add to his collection.” Sherlock checked another message and smiled. “He's rather put out at being wrong. Ha.”

* * *

The cab let them off in front of their flat. “Pay him,” said Sherlock dully as he climbed out, then at John's startled expression he went on: “You have a large amount of my money in your pocket, and my card. At least I hope you still have my card.”

John paid the cabbie, then handed Sherlock back his card. He was about to hand back the cash as well, but the other waved him off. “Simpler to just have you hold on to it. Consider it your errand money.”

John sighed. He felt like a thief, which was absurd. He was the wronged party here. Could there be a greater theft than a person's life? 

And, oh God, it was his life, wasn't it? It gradually began to dawn on John that his entire future was gone, simply gone. Even though he didn't feel that much different, simple things, like the decision to spend a weekend with Harry and her wife was now no longer his to choose. Last week getting together with a chum for drinks at the bar was as simple a matter as picking up a phone and giving them a ring. Now there was this other _person_ he'd have to go through. 

The Cause had consumed the two years of his life, taking his energy, imagination, thought. All those plans, those connections, the network he'd helped build. Dummy corporations to pass money through. Lockers filled with weapons, explosives, cash, documents. The camaraderie of shared belief. The movement had been like his child, his job, and his God all rolled into one. And now even that was gone. He didn't dare go near a contact, didn't dare even think about the strategies or targets, lest it end up being tortured out of him. Who would take over for him? Burgess was crap at planning. Davidson was too green. They needed him, and he couldn't be there for them.

There was no following his bliss or seeking his fortune or making a name for himself in history. This was it: Following behind this lanky fellow whose job he still couldn't fathom, and hope that his orders wouldn't be too repugnant.

John followed Sherlock numbly up to the flat, then went straight to the kitchen to finish up the job he'd started earlier. Sherlock hadn't ordered it, but what else was he supposed to do? He needed some sort of purpose. Something was dying in him. He could feel it, like a tightness is chest. He stared down at a dripping plate and wondered where the hell he was supposed to put it.

“John, come here,” Sherlock's voice drifted in from the rear of the flat. John dropped the sponge back into the sink and headed down the hall. 

As soon as he stepped in the doorway of Sherlock's bedroom, he was assaulted with two simultaneous and competing emotions. The first was the artificial bliss of his collar which seemed to insist that all was right with the world now that he'd followed this minor command. The second was 100% authentic terror which ran through his body like a punishment shock. His muscles didn't know which way to twitch and he was left gaping and suddenly sweaty.

“There you are, John. Let's get this ugly business over with.”

Sherlock took the riding crop in his hand and smacked it against the mattress of his bed with enough speed and force to make an audible whistle and crack. The bed had been stripped except for the fitted sheet and a bath towel laid flat over the side. Sherlock inspected the crop, then smoothed the towel again. 

John swallowed. “You aren't going to punish me with that, are you?”

“Of course, I am.” Sherlock cocked his head in John's direction. “What? Surely you didn't think that you'd get off scott free after stealing my money and running away.”

“But you predicted I'd do that. You wanted me to.”

“That still doesn't make it right.”

“But you _already_ punished me,” said John, taking an involuntary step back out into the hall. “At Bart's.”

“What?” Sherlock looked confused. “Oh, that. That wasn't punishment. That was to keep you from blubbing in fear of what I would do all the ride home. And because you all but demanded it.” Sherlock gently beat the haft of the crop against his palm. 

“I did not--”

“This takes my time and attention as much as yours.” Sherlock continued, testily. “Consider that! What do I get out of watching the collar zap you? Nothing. If I am forced to punish you, I might as well get some useful data from the process. Two birds, one stone.”

“Useful data? What possible data can you get from flogging me with that thing?” John began to feel anger rising up in him. “And I know for a fact that beatings have been _specifically_ discouraged since the invention of the collar. Aren't we supposed to be safe and sanitary these days?

“Discouraged, not outlawed. And come now, a one size fits all punishment like a collar zap, while surely unpleasant, can't possibly give you any sense of the magnitude of your trespass. Do you really think it makes sense to punish a slave for running away the same as you might for spilling a cup of tea? If I did that, you'd tell yourself, 'well, I forgot to do the laundry, I might as well commit murder.'”

“You'll _injure_ me.”

“Minor injuries. You'll recover.”

“I will be less efficient. I already have a limp.”

“Thankfully, I don't require you to be efficient. I'm used to living like this, it will hardly upset me to spend another day or two in a less than gleaming flat. Meanwhile, your continued soreness will make a good reminder not to attempt flight again.”

“Don't do this, Sherlock. It's humiliating,” said John.

“Really? Any more than being told to “heel” in a public building? I've given you some privacy, at least. The bed is comfortable enough. I've disinfected the crop. And I'm through arguing with you over the nature of my punishments. Strip and lie down. The worst of it will be over in ten minutes. You can soldier though that much.”

“Strip,” said John faintly.

“Well I can hardly make note of the bruising if your clothes are covering you.” 

_Tap, tap, tap,_ the crop went against his palm. Distracting. Upsetting.

“I would also remind you that I'm perfectly capable of making your collar zap you as well. Are you really that much of a glutton for punishment.”

John breathed out. With shaking hands he began to undress. Sherlock put down the crop, opened a lap top computer and began tapping out notes. He really was treating this as an experiment. Who _was_ this man?

“All of it?” asked John, when he was down to his pants. Could he keep some dignity?

“Of course,” said Sherlock, dismissively. He picked up an expensive camera off the top of the dresser, and fiddled with it's settings. “Six strokes. I'll need to put two stripes each across your thigh, buttocks and back. The first will be at half strength, the second at full. I will then compare the rate of bruising on impact and at five minute intervals for the next hour. Then once an hour for the next three.”

“Why do you need to know this?”

Sherlock glanced at him and a small smile quirked up his lips, as if he were happy that John had an interest in what he was doing. 

“A case, I determined yesterday that the bruising on a corpse was not post-mortem. The question now is how long prior to death did they occur. I know from the time line that it can be no more than three hours. However, my prime suspect has an iron clad alibi if more than an hour occurred between injury and death.”

“What do you mean case. Are you some sort of investigator? Do you work with the police?” John reluctantly pulled off the last piece of clothing. It was a bit easier having something else to think other than his impending pain. After enduring the collar’s paradoxical approval, he stood awkwardly in the pile of his clothes and thought about corpses. 

“Consulting detective,” said Sherlock. “And yes, I work with the police, though I am not part of the department myself.” Sherlock finished his last sentence on the computer and stood up. “Go ahead and lie down on the towel. I'd prefer not to get any blood on the sheets.”

Shaking John stepped over to the bed and lay on his stomach. Trigger. Bliss. Shudder. Goddamn, if there ever a time not to be getting that reward for good behaviour this was it. Every time it kicked in, it derailed his fear and anxiety and messed with his head. It was confusing, appallingly inappropriate. His mind was getting all addled up.

“Excellent. Now relax as much as you can. I'm just going to take a quick 'before' shot.”

John closed his eyes and tried not to flinch as he heard a camera click.

“Good, good. We'll begin with the back and work down. First stroke. Hold perfectly still.”

A powerful snap and a sharp cutting pain lanced the small of his back. John didn't know how it was that he kept still for it, but apparently he had, because immediately on the heels of the stroke his collar rewarded him. John gritted his teeth. The burn of abraded skin mixed with the heady delight of the collar's positive reinforcement. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

“Next one will be a bit harder. Brace yourself and don't move!”

John didn't know how that was possible to make something hurt more, but it was. He set his teeth, felt the agony mix with a short stab of pleasure before switching back to agony again. John heard his heart pounding, and felt a kind of giddiness that was close to euphoria. He felt a cool trickle that might have been sweat run down his side.

“Good John, good job. One-third done. Next will be buttocks.”

This time something was definitely happening when Sherlock struck him. John's mind was being confused by mixed signals. In addition to the pain of punishment and relief of reward there was a wayward twinge of sexual pleasure. He felt himself thicken and fill out, and was glad that Sherlock had him belly down, so it didn't show.

“That one wasn't so bad, now was it,” said Sherlock. “You're relaxing a bit. Your cheeks are flushed. Get ready, hold still. Here's number four.”

And John was riding a wave of _something_. His endorphins must have been dumping through his bloodstream, mixed with the sharp tang of his collar, and god, he was _high_. His hands spasmed and twitched. He alternated yanking up wads of the fitted sheet in his fists and pushing the fabric way with the palms of his hands. It was hard to hold still longer than the second it took for the blow. His prick had fattened up and pressed like a rod against his lower belly. Part of him wanted to rut against the towel. He held still out of shame and was rewarded for his stillness.

“Last stretch,” said Sherlock, running a soothing hand over his side.

That made it worse. And better. John didn't want to be turned on by this. He didn't want to be comforted. More than everything he didn't want Sherlock to realise something funny was going on with him.

“Keep absolutely still,” said Sherlock after a few seconds. “Five.”

This time it was John's thigh. The moan was out of him before he could stop it. He wasn't even sure if what he was feeling was hurt anymore. It was sharp and burning, layer on layer of sensation, his back, his front, his head. He wondered if he should ignore Sherlock's directives and deliberately move in time with the blows, but that would mean that he wouldn't get the reward, and at this point the pleasure was far too tempting to bypass.

“Last one. Don't move.”

John was knocked out of his body. He floated suspended, two feet above his body like a balloon. His brain had more layers of sensation than it could properly sift though. He wasn't even sure if the pleasure was sexual or pain or maybe even religious. It felt cathartic, emptying. There was no rational thought anymore. No worries about Sherlock or the cause, or anything else. Nothing but raw nerve-endings and the moment.

Sherlock was talking to him, but he couldn't make sense of the words. It only came through as a musical rumbling, a rolling cadence, like a kettle drum. Gradually John drifted lower, until he was in his body again.

And suddenly the experience became a whole lot less psychedelic fun. Whatever pleasure trip he had been enjoying vanished the moment John seemed to click back together. He felt every millimetre of the welts that Sherlock had put on his back. The weals felt _enormous_ , hot, throbbing. The skin around a few of them tickled and itched and he was aware of the smell of blood. This – this is what _normal_ people felt.

“Skin broken three times, very similar abrasions. Shallow, one by five millimetres, each case, minimal bleeding.” Sherlock was saying, apparently to himself. “Redness and swelling pronounced, especially towards the end of the welts. Outline of the leather strap of the crop is raised and clearly delineated. Still very pink. No sign of darker bruising – You with me, John?”

John breathed in. “Where would I go.” His voice was slurred.

“You seemed to lose consciousness for a moment there. I thought perhaps you might have fainted. Never mind, I need to get some photographs. Be a dear and don't move.”

 _Be a dear,_ John mulled. _What a strange thing to say to a person you just tortured. Be a dear. Be a dear._

* * *

Three hours later, Sherlock took his last photograph and told John he could take a shower and dress. With that, he left the bedroom, texting on his mobile as fast as his fingers could fly.

John got up slowly. His muscles had stiffened rigid in the hours since he'd been punished. Even the slightest bending stretched the skin on his welts and brought renewed swift, stinging pain. After a couple of attempts he managed to get his feet on the ground and lever himself up to standing. Tentatively he ran a hand over his thigh. His fingers felt hot tender skin, swollen into palm sized lumps. His limp was exaggerated as he made the few feet down the hall to the bathroom.

John glanced at his back in the mirror. It was black and blue and red. A few small trickles of dried blood clung to his skin. 

Gruesome. Though not as gruesome as many other things he'd seen. Not as gruesome as the war by a long shot. Not even as gruesome as some of the ordinary accident cases he'd seen as a doctor. Sherlock was right. He'd heal. He wouldn't even scar.

The bathroom had one of those mirrored cabinets. Though Sherlock had implied that the lingering pain was part of his punishment, he hadn't actually _said_ that John couldn't treat himself. Rummaging through the expired ointments, tweezers, and pills, he found a half-filled prescription for vicodin made out to someone named Astrid Jameson. John popped a pill and swallowed it down with a handful of water from the tap. Then went to take a shower.

He left the bathroom after bandaging himself up. The vicodin had kicked in by then and the world was a bit swimmy, but not so uncomfortable as before. He limped back to the sitting room holding the wall to keep from toppling. Between the swelling on his thigh and the chronic ITBS, he wasn't very swift. 

“All cleaned up?” asked Sherlock from the couch. His eyes were closed and he had his fingers laced together across his chest. “Don't bother with the housework. You can do that tomorrow when you feel better.”

“I wasn't planning on cleaning up,” said John in a somewhat surly tone. “I was going for an icepack.”

Sherlock's eyes peaked open. “There's also some vicodin in the bathroom, but I see you've already found it.”

“Does that bother you?” asked John.

“No. I've already got my data. Treat yourself as you see best.”

John looked in the freezer. Lodged in the back was a forlorn looking bag of peas, probably long past it's expiration by the state of it's plastic bag. It would do. He wrapped it in a tea towel and then crossed the room to the empty plush chair nearest the window. The vicodin was doing a good job of making sitting bearable, but he had no doubt he'd be sleeping on his stomach tonight. On what? That was the question.

“You should be happy,”said Sherlock. “A man avoided the collar today because of what you just went through,” He made the movement from lying to sitting look fluid and graceful. His eyes were startlingly sharp. 

“Did he really?” John asked. The vicodin made his brain a bit foggy as well. “Well that's nice for him.”

“Quite nice,” agreed Sherlock. “It took between two and three hours for your bruises to resemble that of the corpse. Mr. Wilkes, my client, was at work, on security camera until an hour before the victim's death. As airtight an alibi as they come. At 5pm, he finished his shift and walked home – say, 10 minutes as a stroll. He claims that he remained in the sitting room for forty-five minutes before going upstairs to their bedroom and discovering the victim, his wife, trussed up, gagged and beaten, on the bed. He called for help immediately, but she died just after the paramedics showed up.

“Because of the 45 to 50 minutes of opportunity and the lack of evidence of a break in, the police have been unwilling to consider the possibility of a second intruder. Thanks to the photographs, I sent of you to the police, they are now willing to give the case a second look. Mr. Wilkes will be released from custody, not too much worse for wear. Of course, he will always bear the guilt of not checking the bedroom sooner, but such things are beyond my ability to help.”

John whistled. “So, you really did get useful info out of punishing me.” He couldn't stop a smile from his lips. “I actually did save a person from the collar.” He shook his head with amazement.

“Undeniably. He was scheduled to be fitted with one in a week. Even if the trial had later proved his innocence, he'd still have the embarrassing scars and the misery of being treated as property for the intervening months. It is unlikely, had I not done these tests, that a public defender would have found the evidence to save him.”

John felt giddy. “That's marvellous.”

“Was it worth it to you?” Sherlock asked, fascinated. “This pain you are in — does knowing that it saved a man make it worth it?”

“Absolutely,” said John, fervently. He stared at Sherlock as though he couldn't believe he'd ask such a thing. “I'd go through much worse to save a person from this.” He pointed at his head. “But what would you have done if Mycroft hadn't given you a slave to beat this morning?”

Sherlock leaned back with a small, wry smile. “I would have been forced to hire someone to beat me. I wouldn't have been as assured of the forces needed to properly bruise, and it would have been inconvenient relying on someone else to take the photographs. I rather suspected that Mycroft handed you over to me as a way to stave off that necessity.”

John frowned. “So that's the reason for it. He went all the way to Oregon to collect a man who you could beat in good conscious.”

It was Sherlock's turn to frown. “What? No, absurd. If all he wanted was to give me someone I could beat, he'd offer one of his minions.”

John smiled at the thought that Sherlock called them 'minions' as well. “But you just said --”

“Mycroft never does anything for just one reason. He is the model of efficiency. His actions, even the minor ones, all serve two, three, and even more purposes. And he almost never takes a direct hand in anything. He rarely goes anywhere outside of his office, his home or his social club. But, for you, he got on a plane and traveled half way across the world. He dirtied his hands on a raid, which is unheard of. This isn't about me at all, John. This is about _you_. You fascinate him for some reason.”

“Why?” John asked, not sure whether to be flattered or not. “I'm not the only abolitionist out there.”

“I don't know,” Sherlock spread his hands. “His mind is brilliant. He scans vast amounts of data every day, and pulls connections from them, clues. Where another would only see white noise and randomness, he sees purpose. He sees aberrations. And he follows them to their sources and divines what they mean. Then he uses them.” Sherlock put a hand on John's shoulder. “You mean something.”

“I'm just a person.” John shook his head. “I don't know what he expects to learn from me, especially not in this condition.”

Sherlock said nothing, his eyes were glued out the window, but at what, John couldn't figure.

“And what about you, Sherlock?” John asked after a few minutes. “Now that you've gotten the data you were looking for, are you going to hand me back? Seems to me that if you wanted to own a slave, you'd have picked one out for yourself from the market.”

“I have no interest in owning a slave,” said Sherlock gently pulling the curtains down. “But you are a puzzle.” Sherlock smiled gleefully. “And I love puzzles.”


	3. Chapter 3

It was almost midnight and Sherlock hadn't shown much sign of wanting to sleep. For the past hour he'd been playing his violin in the sitting room. At least he'd yielded the couch, so that John could lie down, but rest didn't come. John was already having trouble sleeping due to his injuries and general stress. He considered taking another vicodin.

Sherlock put down the bow and looked at him. “You could sleep in my bed,” he suggested. 

“Is that an order?” asked John wearily. Even if Sherlock never came to bed himself, the thought of sharing his bed was unbearably creepy.

“No.” 

“Then I'll stay here.”

“Suit yourself.” He then went on to play for another hour before retiring.

It turned out that Sherlock was also an early riser. At a bit past six, John was woken by the whistling of a kettle. He felt groggy and achy but better for several hours rest. His bruises had subsided some during the night. John got up and limped down to the bathroom to get another vicodin. By the time he came back to the kitchen, Sherlock was sitting down to toast and tea. John noticed he'd not made enough for two, but then, as a slave, he hadn't really expected to be waited on.

“Feel free to sleep longer if you need,” said Sherlock offhandedly. “It's pointless trying to keep up with me. I typically sleep no more than five hours a night and sometimes much less.”

John poured more water into the kettle and set it on the burner. He didn't have the energy to worry about sleeping arrangements at the moment. “Who is Astrid Jameson? And why do you have her pills?”

Sherlock made a grunt around a bite of toast. “Case about three months back. She was found dead in her apartment, doors and windows locked. Detective Inspector Lestrade asked me to look in on it. I did. Autoerotic asphyxiation – though a rather gruesomely elaborate set up.”

“How did her pills end up in your cabinet?”

Sherlock looked at him with innocent wonder. “Well _she_ wasn't going to be needing them anymore.” He took another swig of tea. “I find that a vicodin mixed with marijuana has quite interesting soothing-yet-stimulating effects. You should try it. I can roll you a joint.”

“No thank you,” said John quickly. Party drugs were the last thing he thought Sherlock Holmes might be into. “I'd have thought a man of your intellect would guard his braincells a bit more.”

“Oh, God,” said Sherlock, sulkily. “Your doctor is showing. Don't be tedious. My brain has endured much worse and come out with it's intellect intact.” Sherlock tapped the crust of his toast on his plate thoughtfully. “And since we are asking impertinent questions of each other, I noticed you didn't scream yesterday.” His eyes came up to meet John's.

John swallowed and turned his face pointedly turned away. He'd been hoping that Sherlock wouldn't notice anything amiss. He still wasn't sure how he felt about it himself. 

“Ah, ha,” said Sherlock. “Something happened didn't it? I detected some arousal, but, as it was irrelevant to my findings at the time, I put it out of my mind. Tell me, had you any tendencies towards masochism before?

“I'm not a masochist. You kept ordering me,” said John. “It interfered. The signals were mixed. No. I don't enjoy pain. Not before, not now.”

“Pain and pleasure,” said Sherlock, letting the words slide sensually over his tongue. “I shall have to keep this in mind next time I punish you. Perhaps I should hold onto the crop as a reward.”

John was pretty sure Sherlock was taking the piss at his expense, but behind the humour there was a glint of curiosity.

“I'd really you rather not,” John responded, keeping his voice measured.

“Mmm,” said Sherlock, thoughtfully. “I noticed a lot of scarring on you. Mostly superficial, none of it deliberate, but rather a lot for someone who doesn't like pain.”

“I played rugby for years,” said John. “Then I went to war. And then I became a goddamn terrorist. Of course, I picked up a few scars.” He was gritting his teeth.

“The gun shot is the worst. Two years old, by the look of it.”

“Yes.”  
 “Was it it before or after you went AWL?”

“I was shot and imprisoned by the Afghan rebels. They held me prisoner for three months. I never returned to the army after they let me go. So before.”  
 “And did _they_ brainwash you into becoming an abolitionist?” Sherlock's fingers steepled under his chin. His eyes grew bright, almost feverish with excitement. 

John shook his head, firmly “No. I was already an abolitionist. Seeing their plight was what made me realise I needed to stop being a hypocrite about it.”

Sherlock's expression seemed to deflate, as if that weren't the answer he'd hoped to hear. Perhaps he hoped that John was only a deprogramming away from being a model citizen. But John had spoke the truth. He'd been uncomfortable with the notion of slavery since primary school, when no one could give him a solid explanation as to why some people were slaves and some weren't.

“The leg injury was earlier, though – from your Rugby days.” Sherlock's voice broke his thought.

“Yes,” he said tiredly.

“How was it you managed to get into the army?”

“It doesn't bother me all the time. I'd be fine for years, then I'll re-injure it. I don't know why it's been acting up so much lately.”

“Perhaps it's tied to your mood. Depression, exhaustion? Worry?”

“Well, I have nothing to worry about now, do I.” The tea was done. John poured it into a cup. “Pretty much the worst has happened. It's all uphill from here.” 

He was being sarcastic, but Sherlock smiled. “That's the spirit!”

John sat down with his toast. He should have gone to the store yesterday. Sherlock seemed to run on as little food as he did sleep. John had always had a hearty appetite, relying on his active lifestyle to keep the weight off of him. At least Sherlock seemed amenable to him buying what he needed, though John suspected it was more a matter of not wanting to be bothered than out of any real care for his welfare.

“I'm going shopping,” he said testing the waters. “Do you have a list you'd like me to pick up?” 

“Excellent idea,” said Sherlock. “A moment.” He wrote a list of pens and their manufacturers. “No hurry,” he said. “If you can get them to me by this afternoon, I should be obliged.”

John nodded and crammed the list into his front pocket. It was unlikely he'd be able to find all those pens at any one single store. He hesitated a moment before taking his own plate and Sherlocks and giving them a quick wash in the sink. Any dish he left was one he'd just have to clean up later.

He was just headed to the door when there came a knock.

John took the last few steps and opened the door. He jumped to see Mycroft standing right outside with a look of mild expectant pleasure on his face. In one hand was a suitcase sized briefcase. In the other his ubiquitous umbrella

“Good Morning, John!” he said warmly. “Not too banged up? I see Sherlock used some restraint. That's good. I've not finished with you, dear lad.”   
 _He's come to collect me back,_ John thought, panicked. He wasn't sure why he preferred Sherlock as a master over Mycroft, but he did.

“Of course, I used restraint. I'm not a sadist.” Sherlock rolled himself out of his chair with a little leap in his step. “Have you brought it? Give it to me!”

Mycroft turned his eyes to Sherlock. “Tut. So impatient. But as promised, it's right here.” He opened the briefcase and pulled out a three ring binder. “This is everything.”

Sherlock opened up the folder. “Copies.” There was a disdainful edge to his voice.   
“I'd hardly give you the originals,” said Mycroft, with a disapproving frown. “And I'm afraid I can't let you keep this either. You may borrow it for the week, then I'll retrieve it next visit. It contains a great deal of sensitive information that really shouldn’t be taken outside the office.”

John ventured close enough to see over Sherlock's shoulder. He looked at the page and stiffened, his skin crawling. That… that was about _him!_. He recognised that email as one he'd sent out several months ago. Superficially, it appeared to be a description of a vacation to Oregon, but it actually outlined his agenda and personal needs for the jobs he'd done there. Someone had scrawled a key to his code at the bottom of the print out. John looked at the file again. It was more than an inch thick of neatly stacked paper.

“Is that – all me?”

“Of course it is. What else would I want from Mycroft?” said Sherlock. “I called on him while you were making your circuitous way to Bart's and asked him to give me his file on you.”

“Why?” John asked, taking a step away. “It's awfully thick. I hardly think I warrant all that.”

Mycroft seemed amused by his reaction. “If it irritates your sense of modesty, John, trust that even a low level terrorist generates a great deal of paperwork.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, this is suspiciously light. This can't be everything. What have you left out?”

“Nothing of any importance, I assure you.”

Sherlock stared at him darkly. “As I told you yesterday, I want everything, or I won't take him on. What are you hiding from me?”

“Nothing. Everything relevant is in that file,” said Mycroft patiently. “If you care for everything I have where John's name appears, then it will take me several weeks to collect and fill several boxes. If I may ask, what are you attempting to divine? I've been quite upfront about the less savoury side of his character.”

John found it rather disconcerting to be talked about as if he weren't in the room.

“I'm perfectly capable of seeing his character for myself,” muttered Sherlock, impatiently leafing through the file. 

“Well,” said Mycroft, “Then I consider your demands acceded to.” 

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise and curled back in his chair, his eyes glued to the file as if it were the only interesting thing in the room.

For several minutes Mycroft paced about the flat, sizing it up. At one point, he delicately lifted up a take out carton that John had missed getting the day before. Disgust played out plainly over his features. Just as carefully he set the carton down and took out a handkerchief to wipe his manicured fingers with. He could see that Mycroft was the kind who expected the help to be efficient, effective, and invisible.

John winced. For all the work he'd put into the place, it still looked like a garbage heap. Since the beating, he'd barely lifted a hand to pick up. Between the vicodin and lack of sleep he found it difficult to move himself this morning. Surely Mycroft would cut him some slack this early in.

“John,” Mycroft said, after settling on the sofa. He gazed up at him cooly. “How _do_ you feel today?”

“Fine,” he said.

Mycroft tutted. “John, heel.”

John shouted out as pain unexpectedly flared down his nerves. His leg gave out and he dropped to his knees on the carpet.

Sherlock looked up sharply. “He's _my_ slave, Mycroft. I should be the one punishing him, should he need it.”

“He's _our_ slave,” Mycroft corrected. “Though I'm letting you use him on a day to day basis. I will remind you he is part of an experiment that I'm conducting, and that takes priority.”

John had had time to collect himself. Breathing just a bit harshly he pulled himself to his feet and stood, face frozen in a military bearing. Waiting for whatever the bastard had in mind.

“If I may ask, why did you punish me, sir?”

“You may ask,” said Mycroft with an air of generosity. “I punished you because you lied to me.” Mycroft tapped his umbrella against the ground. “I need you to be completely honest with me John. Be frank in your answers and don't be afraid of offending me. If I'm to collect good data, I need you to be as specific and forthright as you can be.”

John nodded. 

“Sit down,” Mycroft ordered.

John winced with expectation as he sat down in the other chair. The brief hit of bliss made him tremble.

“Excellent, I see that your collar is still doing it's job.”

John nodded.

“Has Sherlock been remembering to give you orders?”

“He's given me some.” John remembered Sherlock's admonishments to hold still while he beat him.

“Not enough, clearly. You still appear to be uncomfortable with the reward system. Sherlock I do hope you are listening in.”

“Mmm. Rewards. Ordering,” he muttered.

Mycroft leaned forward. “You need to relax, John. Stop fighting the idea of slavery. Let it become your nature. Enjoy the pleasures it brings, the comfort of knowing your place, absolutely. Don't just fear the unpleasant consequences, look forward to your earned reward.”

Sherlock glanced up over the edges of his notebook, flashing his eyes from Mycroft to John then back before returning to his reading.

John for his part simply stiffened tighter. “I shall try to do that, sir,” he said, with absolutely no intention of doing so.

Mycroft sighed. “John... heel.”

Pain wracked him again. 

“Again with the lying. Stop telling me what you think I want to hear – and what you think will best get me off your back. Your days of manipulation are over. From now on I want to see you open and honest and trusting, as befits your station. Do you understand me, John?”

John nodded. His throat was too tight to speak.

“Let's try this again, then. John, what are you feeling right now. At this very moment.”

“Angry. Hurt. Scared of you. Worried about my soul.”

“How do you feel about me.”

John narrowed his eyes. “I think you are a pretentious prig who thinks he's superior to everyone but wouldn't know a moral compass if it smacked him in the arse. I think you blind yourself to the truth and believe what is most convenient to your own agendas. I see a man who thinks nothing of the people who he uses, and who credits himself for the work of others. I'd like to see you spend an hour in a collar. Even more, I hope that there is a God in heaven and that he smacks your sorry arse down with a bus.”

Mycroft's smile didn't fade at all. “See, that wasn't so hard was it. I admit myself to having some curiosity about what your collar feels like – but I accept your judgement that I'd find it unpleasant. I hope you soon accept mine that the unpleasantness will fade over time.”

“I doubt it.”

“Are you planning on attacking me, John?” His words were deceptively sweet as though he were asking if John were offering to make him tea.

“I've considered it,” he replied, honestly.

“And what stops you?”

John hesitated. “Pain.”

“Heel, John.” John grabbed the sides of his head and hissed out a scream. “And you were doing so well,” said Mycroft mournfully. “That isn't why you don't do it.”

“Well, why don't I then!” John glared at him angrily. “Why don't you tell me for a change? Since you know already anyway.”

“Because you know it would be futile,” said Mycroft. “And you are too smart to waste your efforts that way.”

Before John could reply, Mycroft opened his briefcase again and pulled out a slim laptop computer. It was slick and expensive, lightweight and new. He opened it up. 

“I have a job for you, John. I would like you to keep a blog for me. I've set up a site for you here.” He turned the computer around to show him his own url. It looked like a generic blogging site. “Every day, as you can fit around whatever schedule Sherlock puts you on, I would like you to journal your thoughts and insights. I expect to see a minimum of 100 words up to as long as you feel necessary. You can of course turn your privacy settings on, so that no one can read your entries, or you can leave them public, that is up to you. I will be able to read them regardless, and I will check to make sure that you update every day, but don't expect me to respond.”

John stared at the blank entry. “What do you want me to write.”

“I think we already went over that. I don't _want_ you writing what you think I might want. This is about you, not me. Choose your subject: Your deepest feelings. Your cleaning list. Every curse word you think applies to me or Sherlock. It doesn't matter. So long as every single day, without fail, you write _something_. Consider this as therapy. Be honest. Be frank. Be you.”

Mycroft began to close his briefcase, then stopped, cocked his head and smiled to himself as if in chagrin. “I nearly forgot.” He pulled out a thin box. “It's simply for appearance sake, but appearances can be surprisingly important. Here is a replacement collar for the one John so inconveniently disposed of. I'll leave it for you, Sherlock, to put it on him.”

Sherlock grunted, but didn't look up from the file. John made no move to touch the thing. After hesitating a moment, Mycroft put the box on the table next to the computer. Then gave a small snort of humour. “In time, I suppose.”

He stood up. “And now I shall leave you, as you’re both occupied. And I'm occupied, as well. Diverting as it is to visit, some things simply can't wait. I shall see you both next week. Until then,” he smiled indulgently at both of them, “I wish you both luck.”

John stared at the screen of the computer Mycroft had left behind and barely heard the click of the door shutting behind him.

* * *

Sherlock disappeared into his room with the file Mycroft had left. He had left no clear orders for John to follow, except for a rather brusque: “don't disturb me.” 

John had no difficulty following that order. Unfortunately, it still left him with nothing concrete to do. He sat in the sitting room twiddling his thumbs for about ten minutes before boredom got the best of him. Free time really meant little if there wasn't any freedom with which to enjoy it.

In the back of his mind he remembered that there was a chore Sherlock wanted him to be doing. But Mycroft's visit had knocked what ever it was completely out of his mind. It wasn't housework, as obvious as that was, but nothing else came either. He didn't dare ask Sherlock.

Fuck it. He didn't care. He wasn't cut out to be a slave, the sooner Sherlock realised that the better.

A surge of loneliness indistinguishable from pain passed through him. More than anything he wanted to connect with someone. Hang out with a mate. Conspire, plan, just flat out be seen and heard by someone. He didn't dare call his friends in the Cause. Mike Stamford probably wouldn't be interested in hearing from him any time soon. And Harry. No. He didn't want to talk to her about this. They'd never got on well when he was on the right side of the law. Now that he'd brought disgrace on the family name... well, she probably rather believe he'd died the loyalist in Afghanistan. For all the contact he'd had with her since, he might as well have.

He turned on the telly and watched with the volume off and the captioning on. His eyes kept flickering to the closed door to Sherlock's room, half expecting him to barge out and explain why he was just gadding about like a lazy relation on his couch. But Sherlock didn't. The show was trite, and dull, and pointless. After an hour of quiet resistance, he turned off the telly and sat with his head in his hands.

He'd never been this rudderless in his life.

By accident his foot kicked a glass that was half hidden under a blanket. It clinked and rolled a couple of inches before it contacted a book and came to a stop. John fought the urge to kick it again. Harder. Smash it to bits. He wanted to tear apart the flat bit by bit down to it's foundations. But that would only be doing Sherlock a favour. He'd get to live in a nice clean hotel room while his brother dearest built him a new place.

Besides, this was John's flat, too, now.

This was John's flat, too.

_My flat._

John reached down and picked up the cup. Then he grabbed a plate that had slid under the couch. He found two more cups in odd corners and brought them to the sink. The vicodin was starting to wear off, so he popped another while he was there. Then he started working on the books. There were book shelves, but they were haphazardly filled. John packed the books neatly so their spines showed. The books that didn't fit, he arranged in neat stacks on top. John picked up the laundry he could find and sorted it, dry cleaning in one pile, laundromat in the other. He then shoved them both into a duffle bag.

“I'm going out,” he called.

There was no answer from behind the door.

John hesitated. Then grabbed a scrap of paper and made a note, fixing it to the refrigerator. “Out doing chores.” As he grabbed the duffel his eyes glanced on the things Mycroft had left behind. A laptop computer and a box containing a fake collar. Sherlock hadn't asked him to put the collar on. Mycroft simply assumed he would.

John touched his bare neck.

Without a collar, no one would know he was a slave, John realised. They'd treat him as a free man. No demeaning nicknames. No suspicious glances. No refusal to serve. He wouldn't automatically be last in line, or told to sit on the floor rather than a chair. It gave John a slight twinge of guilt. Even in slavery he was given special privileges. At the same time, there was no way he was going to turn the opportunity down.

He left the collar on the table and walked out of the flat.

He felt like a real human. He got himself lunch at a small sandwich shop on the ground floor, paying with the cash Sherlock had given him. He found a dry cleaner, and four doors down a laundrette. It was crowded, but none of the customers were slaves. These were working class folk, people who had never owned a slave, nor ever would. They accepted him without a second glance. John was certain that even these people would look down on him if they knew the truth.

John tossed Sherlock's towels, pants and socks into the nearest unused washer. He blushed a bit self-consciously at the idea of touching another man's underthings, but no one else noticed. They assumed the clothes were his, and why wouldn't they? Buck up, John, he told himself. Half the job of blending in is simply acting like you belong. He'd planted bombs with barely a nervous flutter in his stomach, and now he was on the edge of shame over a spot of laundry?

John found a discarded newspaper and started reading. The raids were old enough news to have been knocked to page six, and then the article wasn't much of anything. Three of the free men were being moved from one prison to another. John hadn't known any of them very well. He barely cared.

He found himself scanning the paper for anything that had to do with slavery. On the front page of the business section, representatives of the major credit card companies were testifying to the select committee against tighter proposed debt forfeiture laws. They argued that once a customer became a slave, they could no longer pay back what they owed, costing the companies millions of pounds. The government had argued back that the supply of slaves was at a 20 year low and they weren't coming even close to meeting the demand. More slaves had to come from somewhere.

John closed the paper and stared out at the machines. It was all money. No one cared about the slaves themselves.

“Haven't seen you here before,” said the woman next to him. She was blonde, mid thirties, rather pleasantly attractive.

“Me?” John said, looking around, then belatedly realising she was flirting with him.

“Yeah, you,” she said. “Not your usual day?”

“I-- no. Well, it could be,” he said, feeling like his tongue had suddenly swollen to three times it's normal size. “I just moved.”

“Oh?” she leaned forward, her hands laced together in a ball on her knees. “Where were you before.”

“Around. Colonies for a bit. Now I'm back here.” He couldn’t prevent a sigh.

“Didn't pan out for you then,” she said sympathetically.

“You could say not,” he admitted.

She reached a hand forward. “I'm Sarah, by the way.”

“Hi Sarah, John.” They shook.

“What do you do, John?” she asked flirtatiously.

“Oh... I'm doing a bit of this and that. Helping a friend. And you?”

“I'm a doctor, actually,” she said it as if she were ashamed to be slumming in the launderette. “I work over at the new surgery down the road.”

“Oh, really?” John perked up. He almost admitted that he was a doctor – but what would be the point of that. He wasn't anymore, and that would just lead her to ask questions why not. He sucked in a breath and regained his composure. “So how are things?” he said instead. “At the surgery, I mean.”

It became clear that Sarah was being a bit overly modest when they segued off about the challenges of starting up a brand new surgery. She wasn't just a doctor, she was the head administrator with ambitions of one day running a hospital, but for now she was overworked and financially over extended. Once that was out, she talked freely about the other doctors who she'd hired, the difficulty with some of her supply distributers. 

As she talked John remembered setting up tents and distributing vaccines to sick villagers. Setting broken bones in the 95 degree heat. Pulling shrapnel out of young soldier's lungs. He wondered if that would impress Sarah. 

His hands clenched. What he wouldn't give to erase the last two years and go back there again.

It was a moment of weakness. And a futile one. Done was done and he didn't really regret blowing up the slave records centres. But if he _had_ come straight home after his afghani captors had let him go, he might be working right now along side this woman.

“That's my laundry!” she said. John watched as she collected her things out of the dryer, folded them efficiently and packed them away in a duffel like his. “See you next Wednesday, John,” she said cheerfully as she went out the door.

John smiled and waved and felt more validated as a person than he had all week. Whistling, he collected Sherlock's underwear and headed home.

* * *

Sherlock was back in the living room when he arrived. He appeared to be taking a nap on the sofa, so John toed off his shoes at the door and crept past him so as not to disturb him. He still felt like his own person, but if Sherlock woke up and started ordering him about that spell would break. 

He let himself into the flat's bedroom, gave the mess an appraising eye, then made his way to the heavy antique set of drawers lumbering in the corner. He wondered briefly if Sherlock were the type who wanted his pants pressed, then decided that unless Sherlock specifically ordered him, he wasn't going to go there. The socks took longer, because he actually had to match them. Sherlock apparently didn't believe in buying them in matching bundles, so each pair was unique. John was torn between curiosity about the style choices of the man who owned him and a distinctly uncomfortable feeling of being too intimate with a complete stranger.

As he laid the socks out on the bed, he noticed Mycroft's folder left on the night table at the head of the bed. He wondered what it was that Mycroft had considered important enough to document about him. Probably just detailed reports of his terrorist activities. Still, it seemed like an awful lot of paper for just that. Had other people talked about him? Were there interviews with friends, neighbours, employers, family? What had they said?

He took another balled pair of socks and put it in the drawer. Then looked at the folder again. He then looked at the open door to the room. Back at the folder. John crept to the door, making sure not to let the floorboards creak under his weight. Carefully, carefully he shut the door to the room, wincing at the quiet snick as the latch hit the strike.

Breathe.

This wasn't like setting a bomb. This was just a folder. Sherlock hadn't said he couldn't look at his own file. There was no reason for his heart to be racing. Calm.

The folder was organised into eras: Early childhood, schooling, university, his brief stint as a civilian doctor before signing up with the army. His army career. The stint as a POW. Finally the last two years as a terrorist. Oddly enough, the section on his terrorism was no more detailed than that of his days as a schoolboy. Why would Mycroft _care_ about his grades in year seven? Why on earth had Mycroft interviewed his old clarinet teacher? Did it make a difference that he was an indifferent musician, and that after two years, he had the technical skill to play a number of tunes but no feel for the music? Yet it was there. Mycroft had even underlined the words. Bizarre.

Much of the folder was filled with things that John had written. The coded emails he'd expected. Even the personal letters he'd written Harry during his time in Afghanistan made some sense. But the essay on the fall of the Roman Empire from when he was ten? Why on earth was that there? How on earth had Mycroft found a copy of it? 

Some was not so much perplexing as embarrassingly personal. His dating history was sprinkled through the entire thing, some of it in lurid detail, most of it rather distressingly inaccurate. There was two pages worth of his classmates second hand guessing at his childhood crushes. They were right on two accounts, wrong on one (he’d liked the girl as a friend but never more) and the fourth — okay yes, he hero worshipped the older boy, but that hardly counts as a crush. Oddly enough there were quite a few of his conquests completely missing, for example none of the women he’d picked up on various shore leaves had rated a mention. And yet Mycroft saw fit to document in detail his brief, intense, but yet still very much _platonic_ relationship with one of his army buddies. 

And finally there was Andre Gaboriau, his mentor in the Cause: the man who taught him how to make a pipe bomb, how to case a building and see it’s weak spots, set up drop spots, money launder, organise a bunch of slaves into a terrorist team. Andre was slightly older than John, flamboyantly gay and very committed to a wealthy man twenty years older than himself. He was also the only man John actively fantasised about fucking. But there was no way that Mycroft could have known that. Not without reading minds, he couldn’t. Yet there in Mycroft’s handwriting in the margins next to Andre’s name was “Bisexual leanings.” Sherlock would have read those words. Who knew what conclusion he’d have come to about them.

John rubbed his forehead.

“It makes me wonder why Mycroft gave you to me,” said Sherlock dryly.

John dropped the folder on the bed as if it had burned him. Sherlock stood by the open door to his bedroom. He was much better than John at being quiet when he wished. John felt a rueful admiration. Sherlock would have been a good terrorist.

“You didn't say I couldn't read it,” he said, cooly. It was true.

A smile lit up Sherlock's face. “I'm not saying you can't now, either. In fact, if you hadn't I would have had to order you to.” 

He walked over and picked the folder up, paging through the pages near the end. “I've poured over this for hours, but I still can't make sense of it. The only explanation that comes to mind is that my brother has developed a rather extraordinary obsession with you as a person, rather than just as a threat to the government. Which brings me back to musing why he gave you to me, rather than keeping you himself.”

John shuddered at the thought of Mycroft pouring over the details of his life. He remembered the delicate touch of the man's hands, putting on his first collar. “I haven't a clue.”

“Did your paths ever meet before this?”

“I swear, no.” John shook his head for emphasis. He would have remembered someone like Mycroft.

“Did he give you _any_ indication what he wanted you for. Why he made you a slave and not any of your other co-conspirators?”

“Not at all.” John ran a hand over his cheeks. “The first time I met him was during the raid. And it seemed to me that it was the first time he'd seen me as well. He didn't seem that impressed with me, to be honest. I thought he might have been a bit disappointed.”

“Oh hardly,” Sherlock said, sitting down on the bed. The mattress bounced a bit under his weight. “He's a master of understatement. It's _obvious_ that he's been at you for months. Look at the dates on the interviews. He knew about your terrorist activities almost from the moment you began them. His obsession stems from only days after your very first criminal step in France.”

“If he knew what I was up to – why didn't he pick me up back then? Surely he could have.”

“Of course, he could have. He was waiting.”

“For what?”

“This!” Sherlock leafed to nearly the last page. There was a copy of the brochure Sherlock had had in his pocket at Bart's the day before. John felt his stomach clench as he saw the artistic rendering of wires threaded through a brain. The internal collar. 

“He was waiting for this technology to be developed and proven safe. It wasn't until after the first batch of slaves survived their operations and showed that they were problem free that he organised the sweep that brought you in. He wanted you safe and in that collar. Specifically you. And specifically _that_ collar.”

“Wait a second. That means that Mycroft _allowed_ me to destroy that factory, those facilities. He could have stopped me at any time!” The realisation hit John like a hot brick to the chest. Mycroft had given him the rope to hang himself with. Deliberately.

“Of course, he could. He could have picked you up two years ago, with the paint from your first incendiary graffiti still drying on your hands.”

“Then why didn't he?!” John shouted. “If he had, I might not be a slave right now! Thirty days in jail, that's the sentence for petty property damage. It was my first offence. I might have been scared off and gone straight! I didn't even meet Andre Gaboriau until weeks after that. I might not have become a terrorist at all.”

“And that's the reason why he didn't pick you up then,” replied Sherlock cooly. “For all I know, he may have even helped arrange the meeting between you and Gaboriau. I wouldn't put that past him at all.”

“He _wanted_ me to be a terrorist? He deliberately screwed over my life? He manipulated me to this state.” John sweated. The weals on his backside throbbed. The incision scar itched. 

“Exactly. And why would he want that?” Sherlock snapped, standing up and putting his hands on John's shoulders. “What does it mean, John?” His hand went up to touch the scar on the back of John's neck. “Why cultivate you, like a seed, bring you to harvest and lay you on my doorstep. My brother is devious, but he's never been this opaque.” Sherlock let go of him and went back to the folder.

“It means your brother is a fucking _sadist_. He ruined my life.”

Sherlock flipped through the folder. He stopped on the essay on the fall of Rome. “Mycroft is many things, but he's not a sadist. This isn't about destroying your life. It's about transforming you into something useful to him. But _what?_ ” Sherlock slammed the cover of the folder down. “I rather dislike being used as a tool for some obscure political machination.”

“You dislike it?” John snorted. Then laughter began welling helplessly up. He let it roll out of him. “Oh god. You and me both. You and me both.” 

John sat down. He didn't ask. He wasn't Sherlock's slave. Sherlock didn't _want_ a slave. They were both just tools in Mycroft's belt. Sherlock joined him in his laughter.

“By the way,” Sherlock said suddenly. “You did remember the pens I asked for, didn't you?”

John's eyes widened. “Shit!” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled list. He'd completely forgotten nearly _everything_ he'd planned before Mycroft had come along. Including laying in kitchen supplies. His injuries smarted as he jerked to his feet, but he ignored them.

“I'm so sorry, Sherlock, I completely forgot! I'll be back in a bit.” Please don't punish me!

But Sherlock just smiled. “You still got a few hours of afternoon left. Better hurry, that's a good man.”

* * *

That night Sherlock ignored the supper John cooked in favour of playing with his pens up in his attic laboratory. John finished cleaning up the kitchen, took another pill, and considered catching up on his sleep on the sofa before Sherlock decided to start playing his violin again.

He lay curled under a blanket, head on a rather stiff throw pillow with the union jack stitched on it. He'd need to find better accommodations than this. Perhaps if he rearranged the furniture up in the attic, he could fit a lilo between the filing cabinets and the chemistry table. It was a far cry from having his own bedroom, but at least it would be a whole lot better than the sofa.

Then the pill kicked in. Floating on a wave of opiates, he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

_Sarah was showing him around the surgery, which for some reason was inside the laundromat. Patients mixed with people off the street, washing and folding their clothes. Some of the patients were doing the same, washing loads of white, white sheets and hospital gowns._

_This will be your room – said Sarah when they reached the back of the laundromat. She opened up a door to a broom closet, filled nearly to capacity with medical supplies._

_John felt so pleased to see it. – My space, to do with as I wish.-- There was even a lilo there, where John could sleep._

_Sarah smiled indulgently at him. Her shirt was cut indecently low. – Shall we test it? She asked, meaning the bed._

_Touch her – Sherlock ordered, from somewhere, everywhere and nowhere. Fuck her – his voice was deep and musical and soothing and insistent._

_John did, wrapping Sarah in his arms, feeling the softness of her breasts against the palms of his hands. The collar pleasured him for his compliance. – Feels so good._

* * *

“John!” 

John bolted upright, then brought up his knee to hide the erection. He blinked around the dimly lit room. Sherlock was standing on the other side of the coffee table, looking quite seriously put out.

“Wha-- what?” John blinked. _My god I dreamt him ordering me to --_ John wrenched through a series of emotions. Sherlock wasn't a mind reader. Whatever was bothering him had nothing to do with the damn dream.

“Your _blog_ , John,” said Sherlock impatiently. “Every day without fail. If you don't do it, Mycroft will punish you. Worse, he may take you back.” Sherlock opened the laptop and pushed it towards him. “Write your words, _that's an order._ You have half an hour until midnight.”

John jumped. His erection deflated and was forgotten along with the dream that inspired it.

100 words. He could do it. He'd always been good at writing. But now the screen loomed at him empty. He blinked and rubbed his hands over his cheeks. Sherlock stared at him, his eyes spearing into him like beams.

“You are putting me off,” said John sharply after a moment. “Just, go do your pen thing. I'll do it.”

“You'd better.” Sherlock turned and left.

Once he was gone, the screen seemed a little less intimidating. Mycroft said he could write anything. He'd specifically given him permission to call him names. But did he really trust that Mycroft was being truthful. John thought. People often thought they were tough enough to handle someone else's wrath, but few actually were. Then John remembered the punishment Mycroft had meted out. He'd been about as unequivocal as a person could get. Perhaps Mycroft was one of the few people out there who really meant it.

Here was a chance to get back. 

John wrote a hundred words of the coarsest sailor language he had in him. He compared Mycroft's mother unfavourably to a barnyard animal. He criticised his weight, style, and intelligence. He accused Mycroft of various illegal and unhealthy sexual activities. He discussed various painful and lingering forms of suicide that Mycroft aught to indulge in.

And then he stopped. 

None of this would sting a man like Mycroft. Hell, in Afghanistan, John had been at the target of many swearwords from his patients. They were just blowing off steam because they were frightened and in pain. It meant nothing. This meant nothing, too. Mycroft might even interpret it as healing.

He highlighted the entire thing and erased it.

Twenty minutes until midnight.

John glanced at one of Sherlock's books that hadn't made it back to the bookshelf. He flipped it open and began writing the first paragraph. Boring. Stupid. Useless information that meant nothing to anyone. It was defiant without giving Mycroft any peek into his psychology.

Except it did. It was childishly defiant. And it wasn't just boring to Mycroft, it was boring to John as well. He stopped two sentences in and erased again.

Fifteen minutes.

John took a deep breath. Mycroft had read and collected his school essays. He'd read his casual emails. He definitely was going to read this. _Can I use that?_

People had always told John that he was persuasive. He couldn't get out of the collar, but maybe he could convince Mycroft not to use it against him. Maybe _Mycroft_ was open to reason. Maybe he could _teach_ Mycroft why what he was doing was so cruel and morally despicable.

` WHY YOU ARE WRONG,` he titled the entry.

`You wanted to know what it's like to be in this collar. This is what it's like:`

And John wrote down his deepest feelings in the most vivid, descriptive way he could. Anyone who read that and wasn't moved needed a new heart. Two minutes before midnight he hit the post button and rode a blissful wave of satisfaction and artificial pleasure.

Take that.


	4. Chapter 4

They quickly fell into a routine, he and Sherlock. Every day, John did his valiant best to anticipate Sherlock's needs without bothering him. He prepared meals for both of them – which Sherlock ate only half the time. He did all the cleaning, which was considerable. For a grown man, Sherlock made horrible messes. John didn't touch anything that looked like it might be connected to Sherlock's work, even though some of it really ached to be binned. And he didn't complain.

In return, Sherlock didn't say a word when John spent the better part of a day rearranging the attic laboratory so that it could double as a bedroom. He didn't object to John taking over half of a wardrobe for the minimal clothes he bought himself. He let John do his chores at whatever pace he preferred. Even let him sit and watch crap telly for hours, when John just couldn't take being domestic any longer.

They had a wordless understanding: Sherlock didn't order John around except by sheer accident. John made sure that he didn't need to. It was a bro code, just to them. Tentative, more than a little uneasy, and quite, quite conspiratorial given Big Brother looming over both of them. It was the two of them against the damn collar. Sherlock would have made a fantastic terrorist.

Life was good. Well, perhaps not “good.” It was mind-numbingly boring, soul crushingly lonely and almost entirely thankless and unrewarding, but other than that it was bearable. It was adequate, which was more than John could have possibly hoped for under the circumstances. He did his thing, Sherlock did his, like two electrons sharing the same nucleus – close, yet never quite intersecting.

Then on Sunday, it changed.

John was getting the cobwebs out of the corners when, apropos of nothing, Sherlock launched into a monologue about a case that he'd solved. After his initial surprise, John simply sat down and listened. 

It was a regular who-dun-it, with murder, a cheating wife and quiet little civil servant who no one would believe was capable of being a confidence man. It would have been even more exciting if it hadn't been weighed down with ponderous digressions into the colour and composition of garden dirt and a rather long side trip into optics that had only extremely tangental relevance. But John ate it up, every bit of it. He was downright envious of Sherlock's job.

“What next,” he said, when Sherlock broke for a moment.

“Are you actually interested?” Sherlock asked.

“Riveted,” said John with absolute honesty.

Sherlock glowed and continued on – enjoying what he thought was a captive audience. But truthfully, John didn't feel that captive. Sure Sherlock had a rather mighty opinion of himself, but it was pretty clear that he'd earned his self-praise.

“You were able to deduce her infidelity based on her wedding ring?” John broke in to ask, not sure he believed it.

Sherlock rocked back in his chair, smug. “It's _obvious._ Normal wear and tear will put dings on the outside of a ring, but for there to be scuff marks on the _inside_ of her ring, that is quite unusual. It could have only happened if she not only regularly removed it, but that she stored it haphazardly in a pocket with keys or coins. It was her marriage in a nutshell. Something to be casually doffed the moment it became inconvenient.”

“That's fantastic,” said John with genuine admiration. “It makes total sense! You are really amazing, you know. Bloody brilliant.”

“You think so?” And Sherlock preened for a moment, before awkwardness crept in between them. “Of course, you'd have to say something like that, wouldn't you. That wretched thing in your head.” He sighed. “How tiresome.” John jolted. He'd forgotten about the collar. Then his face darkened with sudden anger that even his _word_ was now suspect because of his slavery. 

“Oh, piss off, no I wouldn't.” He challenged Sherlock with his eyes. “You want me to be your yes man, you'll have to order it. Every time. Otherwise, I'll call you a wanker when you deserve it.”

“Yes, do,” said Sherlock quickly. Then he seemed to grow almost fragile. “And thank you. Sometimes it's hard to accept a compliment. People generally find my self-glorifying irritating.”

“It's a good story,” said John, honestly. “You should write it up. You could be like Anne Rule.”

Sherlock laughed once and then grimaced. “I tried once,” he admitted after a thoughtful moment. “A few years ago. My agent claimed that my writing style is over-dry and unbearably clinical. Perfect for text books, but too difficult for the dull-eyed, dowdy, middle-aged women who apparently buy those sorts of novels. If you want to see them in print, you'll have to write them up yourself.”

“If you'd like,” said John, surprised by his own eagerness. “I mean, if you give me permission to. I need something to blog about.” And that sounded so lame, he winced.

“You have my permission.” Sherlock seemed genuinely flattered.

For the rest of the night, enemy though he was, John thought that he might actually like Sherlock.

* * *

The next day he got treated to the other side of Sherlock's nature. The detective had received a text message that morning that sent him careening off into an unbearable funk. He tossed his mobile across the room and into the cushions of the couch, then began to pace.

John, still feeling a bit chummy from the night before asked, “Is there something wrong? Who texted you?”

 _Bad move._ John knew it the instant the words were out his mouth. 

Sherlock rounded on him and let him have it. The tea was too weak, the eggs rubbery. John was lazy and stupid and _in the way._ How could a man as small as John make so much blasted noise? He walked too loud, he cleaned too loud, he breathed like an asthmatic. And the expense. John ate and ate and ate. All that cooking and masticating, throwing out food, getting fatter and fatter while Sherlock's bank account got smaller. It was like hosting a pig. And the nagging. The constant nagging. The “Sherlock what do you want at Tescos. Sherlock I'm going out. Sherlock open the door and let me in!”

After forty minutes of abuse, John had enough. “Alright, I don't care what's got into you. I'm out of your hair.”

Daring Sherlock to say anything about it he reached into the coat Sherlock had left on the rack and grabbed his keys. He pulled off the ones for their flat and the building and tucked the ring back in the coat pocket. “I'm going to make copies of this so I can do your damn chores without bothering you. Or are you going to tell me to heel?”

Sherlock simply tossed the newspaper he was pretending to read and stalked back to his bedroom.

When John returned twenty minutes later, Sherlock was gone. He must have already had a spare key, because the doors were locked behind him and Mrs. Hudson wasn't home. John let himself in and then stood, sighing at the newspaper on the floor. He picked it up and folded it before going to make himself some tea. Whatever bug had crawled up Sherlock's arse had nothing to do with him, but as a slave, clearly he was going to suffer through it anyway. Might as well make the most of his few minutes of peace before Sir Surly came home.

Sherlock returned an hour later carrying a shopping bag. He plunked it angrily on the coffee table. “Come here, John.”

It was the first order Sherlock had given him in days. John tightened his lips, but then complied. The pleasure came almost as a shock. It was seductively relaxing, which given Sherlock's mood was a bad thing.

Sherlock quickly pulled apart the packaging on a brand new smart phone and then handed it over. It was expensive and slick, web enabled and preloaded with dozens of apps. “This is yours,” he said. “You can change the ringtones if you wish. Keep it on hand at all times.”

John stared at it. “Why?” It was a lavish gift.

“Why?” Sherlock sneered. “Because you are my slave and you spend hours away from the flat every day. What if I need you?” 

John swallowed nervously. Of course, why would Sherlock give him a phone except as a means of delivering orders. He shuddered at the thought of having his collar triggered in public. God only knew what his face looked like when the bliss hit him. And worse that even that, getting away from the flat, even if it was to do _his_ chores, had been one of the few freedoms John had left. And now he was tethered again.

Sherlock was right. John was a slave. And it seemed the days of Sherlock's reticence on the matter were over.

* * *

But when the orders came (of course, they came), they were all in text form. For whatever reason, the collar simply wouldn't work with written words. John knew this, and he knew Sherlock knew it as well. It wasn't the relief that John had half hoped. John was stuck with all the grind of being at someone's beck and call, but none of the reward. Instead of just sticking it to Mycroft, now Sherlock was sticking it to Mycroft _and_ John.

This was how real slavery worked, John knew. It felt just as shitty as he always imagined it would.

Through text messages, Sherlock was quite bossy indeed. Come here. Do that. Buy this. John returned home ragged and weighed down with packages and with barely enough money in his pocket for the bus ride back. He'd have to ask for cash _again,_ and with Sherlock constant harping on how expensive John was, that wasn't going to be fun.

But to his surprise, Sherlock's funk had lifted. He looked positively _giddy_ with happiness. And John could see why. A very pretty looking woman in a very sharp looking skirt suit was sitting at their kitchen table. Sherlock was poured her tea and smiling away like the most charming man in existence.

John tried to be unobtrusive as he banged his way in with all his packages. Of course, they both stopped what they were doing and stared at him. Now that he could see her face, John realised that she was considerably older than he'd first assessed. Perhaps fifty, but trim, fit and coiffed to perfection. Definitely doable. 

Sherlock had brought home a cougar. If John had been less exhausted he'd have chuckled.

Sherlock nodded at John, “take those up to the lab, if you would.” His expression practically telegraphed, _and stay out of my way._ “My flatmate,” he said to her.

John smiled and nodded, not having a hand free to wave or shake. Then attempting to suppress a grin he took himself up the stairs to what he tentatively considered his room.

A wealthy cougar wouldn't be such a bad thing for Sherlock. In fact, she'd be perfect. Enough maturity to overlook Sherlock's obvious social deficits. Enough life experience to keep the brilliant man interested.

And maybe, just maybe, if Sherlock got himself laid, he might not be quite so adverse to John having a social life of his own. He thought of Sarah from the laundrette again. A man could dream.

* * *

The next day Sherlock surprised the hell out of John by stuffing a few bills in his back pocket and giving his rear a friendly pat. “Never mind feeding me,” he said cheerfully. “Go get yourself breakfast at the cafe on the corner of Seymour and New Quebec. I'll text you instructions from there.”

Shaking his head, John complied. As soon as he sat down with his bacon and eggs, the text messages started pouring in. He was to sit in the cafe and text back if he saw this waitress flirt with this man. Then go to this address, promptly at this time, and remove this envelope from the mailbox. On the way back, buy this arrangement of flowers and bring it to this woman. The note should read: I love you, Jeffrey. 

That night, John ladled spaghetti with clams and white wine sauce onto Sherlock's plate, while the other sat, fingers steepled, mind obviously a million miles away. Without waiting, John set about eating his own food. It was good, if he said so himself. Especially considering how little experience he had with cooking before this week. Damn good.

“Are you going to tell me about the case?” John ventured after sating his hunger. “I imagine that's what I spent all day running around for.”

Sherlock seemed to come to life and focused on him. “Mmm? Oh yes. Lovely little domestic quadrangle. Her lover was attempting to blackmail his lover. The unfortunate couple in the middle each knew of the other's affair, but didn't believe that the other knew of theirs.”

“Sounds like a good soap opera.”

“It is – was, but it all ended today. The couple have decided to cut ties with their lovers and go to counselling to save their marriage. The blackmailer has conveniently mislaid his evidence,” Sherlock patted the envelope that John had retrieved. “And, my client has learned a valuable lesson in being more discrete about the men she chooses to sleep with.”

She, John caught. “The woman yesterday was your client?” It made sense though it was oddly disappointing.

Sherlock blinked, surprised. “Yes, of course. Who did you think she was?”

John shrugged. “I don't know. A date?” Then in response to Sherlock's obvious bemusement, he went on. “You seemed to be into her. I mean, you were being...” Sherlock's brows rose higher “... Friendly-- er – than usual. Charming. And she was very good looking.”

“Was she?” Sherlock shrugged and turned his attention to his cooling plate. “I wouldn't know. Women really aren't my area of expertise. I find their contradictory expectations difficult to anticipate. It's grating, to be honest. But it's nice to hear you think I was charming.” He swept up some pasta on his fork and neatly placed it in his mouth. “Mmm. This is good, by the way. Your cooking is improving.”

“Thank you,” replied John, but then after a beat he pursued. “You must not date many women then.”

“I don't date women at all.” Sherlock met his eye.

John nodded. Mycroft had suggested as much. “Men then?”

“Not recently,” Sherlock's eyes were boring into him. “Does my sexual orientation disturb you?”

John hastily shook his head. “Not at all. Why should it.”

“Because, technically speaking, I could order you to sleep with me, and legally and ethically, you'd be required to do so.”

John stomach hardened, he suddenly couldn't look at Sherlock anymore. “Are you going to?”

Sherlock swept up another bite of food. “No.”

John let go of the breath he was holding.

“Though doubtless my brother thinks I should. He's of the opinion that some of my more self-destructive behaviours are a manifestation of emotional and sexual repression. He's one to talk though. He's lived alone for far longer than I have.”

More than ready to latch onto another subject, John pounced on that fact. “Lived alone. He doesn't have a slave then?” Somehow he'd formed a picture in his mind of Mycroft rattling about a mansion surrounded by a bevy of servants in matching outfits.

“Other than you?” Sherlock's eyes twinkled. “Never.” He suddenly laughed as if the idea was ridiculous. “No. What would he need one for? He doesn't trust them around his work – an unwilling employee is an unreliable one, he always said. And he has even less need of a domestic. He lives in a tiny flat in the most expensive part of London. His cleaning lady comes once a week to dust and do his laundry, but she hardly needs to do even that. I don't think the stove has been lit for anything more than tea since he moved in two decades ago. He takes all his meals at a private club he belongs to, and other than that, he works. Constantly.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. “I really shouldn't worry about him demanding you back. I mean, where would he put you? His cupboard?” He turned his attention back to his food, chuckling softly around his fork.

Yet, despite his reasoning, Sherlock did worry. John could tell. As he set about cleaning the kitchen he could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, watching, observing, thinking.

* * *

The next day was Wednesday. Which meant that Mycroft was due to take back his folder. John was loathe to let it go. He'd read every page of the thing more than once. It was a cross between a walk down memory lane and a hideous invasion of his privacy. For the most part, people had good things to say about him. That had been unexpectedly nice. Even people who John suspected didn't like him were politely complimentary. The worst criticism was about his apparent cynicism and distrust. Apparently more than one person considered him a poor team player, which surprised John because he rather thought that getting along with others was his strength.

He reread a particularly uncomfortable passage. _He’s more of a follower than a leader,_ said Jenkins, a man who had worked under him without complaint for five months in Afghanistan. _He doesn't inspire confidence in others. He just doesn't seem to know what he's doing, or trust that anyone else does either._ Ouch. He'd thought they'd had an easy going relationship. Clearly not.

It was one of the few marks against him, but for some reason, Mycroft had highlighted it, as if John being a crap leader were more important to him than the glowing pages on how brave, and trustworthy and personable he was.

“Rereading to appease your vanity,” asked Sherlock with a wry smile. “Or are you dwelling on those few bits where people were less than gushing? Either way is sad, John. Are you really that insecure?”

John simply closed the cover and didn't answer. He placed it on the coffee table. “When will Mycroft get here.”

“In his own time.”

“I don't suppose I have to be here for it.”

The change in Sherlock was immediate. He switched from amiable boss to glowering master in a heartbeat.

“Don't be ridiculous, you are the only reason for him coming here. And don't even _think_ to show that sort of will when he's here. Make yourself some tea, John,” Sherlock ordered. “Or sit down. Whatever you think will steady your jitters.”

John began the tea, taking a deep breath as collar jolted him. “I don't have the jitters.” How could he with that thing drugging him.

“Of course, you do. You are part of some mysterious experiment, the nature of which has even the best detective on Earth baffled. You'd be a fool not to have jitters.”

John stared at his empty tea cup. “Well thanks. Now I have jitters.”

“You are welcome.” 

"Friendly" Sherlock was back.

* * *

Mycroft arrived at their doorstep in a sleek limo fifteen minutes later. His suit was dove grey and immaculate, and everything about him spoke of relaxed confidence. He strolled in, tapping his umbrella lightly against the ground with every step.

“Good morning, Sherlock,” he said as soon as he was in the door. “John – sit down.” He waved a hand towards the couch. Though Mycroft's smile was mild he seemed to carry a dark cloud behind his eyes. Sherlock crouched in his favourite chair looking pensive. John did as he was told and tried to ignore both the perfunctory tone and the inevitable shock of pleasure.

“I'm sure you know what I'm going to say to you, Sherlock, but for John's sake I'll do the formal thing and vocalise it.” Mycroft sat down on the chair opposite Sherlock. “The two of you have been very naughty. I'd hoped to see some improvement when I gave you that ultimatum a few days ago, but I see your obstinate streak hasn't abated.” The smile disappeared. “This is a serious problem, and it has to stop now.”

“I've given him regular orders, just as you've insisted,” Sherlock replied. “I've run him ragged doing the things I needed.”

“Don't be naïve, Sherlock. Text messages don't count. Loophole logic will not fly here. Order him with your voice. Make that collar work. He needs regular, frequent rewards. And regular punishment as well. You haven't been providing him with either.

“Punishment for what? His behaviour is perfect,” asserted Sherlock. “Or are you suggesting I simply hurt him for the fun of it.”

“If he hasn't acted up, it only means that you have been far too lax in your demands.” Mycroft raised his chin so that he was looking down his nose at his brother. “You have to _push_ him to the point of discomfort. Have him perform acts that are uncomfortable, degrading, embarrassing. Bring that rebelliousness that I see seething just under his skin to the surface. Only then can it be crushed.”

John's face flushed. It took willpower to stay in his seat and not beat the man over the head with his umbrella. 

Sherlock looked at him and blanched. “Be still, John. He's trying to get a rise out of you.”

John held still. The wash of bliss, for once, was welcome, as it made it just barely possible not to explode.

“I'm not _trying_ to get a rise,” corrected Mycroft. “I _need_ to get a rise out of him. This will not do, Sherlock! I gave him to you because I knew you wouldn't hold any sentimental notions towards his status. You'd be able to use him as ruthlessly as he needs to be used. And here I find you unaccountably coddling him. Letting him avoid the things that he dreads the most, when what he needs is to face them, endure them, and push past. You aren't being merciful, Sherlock. Sooner or later it will happen, he will break. And it will just be worse if you force him to prolong this stage.”

The need to get away clawed its claustrophobic way up John's craw. He found himself scanning the room once more for weapons, escape routes. Mycroft barely glanced his direction, but John sensed his attention latch on to him. “If you so much as move an inch, John, I will punish you to literal tears. Be still and listen to your betters.”

“Stop terrorising him. He's frightened enough,” said Sherlock.

“Do you think he's that weak?” asked Mycroft. “Did you not read his file at all? He's not a damsel in distress, he's a seasoned fighter. He's stoic and tough. He can take far worse than this.” Mycroft tilted his head. “What are you afraid of, Sherlock,” he asked, gentler. “What worries you? Is it that you grown so enamoured of his unsavoury side, that you want him to keep it?”

“I like him as he is. He's useful to me, _as he is._ And I don't see how making him into a mindless drone will improve him _at all.”_

“That's not for you to decide.” Even Mycroft's glares were mild, but for some reason that simply made them more chilling. “If you can't do the simple job I've asked you to, I have no choice but to remove him. My assistant says that she is willing to take him on and give him a proper work out. I know that she'll do whatever I ask.”

John pleaded to Sherlock with his eyes. _Don’t let him do this!_

“Give me another week,” said Sherlock. “I'll make sure he is rewarded until he's turns into a spineless puddle. I'll punish him until he sobs. I will exhaust him with my demands. Just let me be the one to do it, not some glorified secretary who can barely take her eyes away from her phone.”

Mycroft nodded, he took the binder of John's life and stood up, as if heading for the door. Then his path changed. He walked over to John. Without hesitation he shoved two fingers down the collar of his jumper and then paused with them hovering precisely over the scars where collar needles had once pierced his flesh. Mycroft then removed them. John couldn't prevent himself from flinching away as the fingers drew a slow line upward toward the scar at the nape of his neck.

“It may seem to you to be a mercy not to wear a visible collar, but it's not. I won't put it on you, because I know that soon you will choose to put it on yourself. When you've reached that point, I'll be there for you.” Mycroft leaned in until his lips nearly touched John's ear. “I'm not your enemy,” he whispered. John felt goosebumps rise on his arm. 

Mycroft stood up straight and spoke again in a normal voice. “One day you will come to see that we are on the same side, John. And you will thank me for the opportunity to serve that I've generously given you.”

He did leave then and John and Sherlock sank into silence in his wake.

“Thank you for standing up for me, Sherlock,” said John after several deathly long minutes. “I was really afraid he was going to --”

“Heel, John,” snapped Sherlock, suddenly.

John cried out at the unexpected agony. When it left, he sat on the floor and shook, not daring to look at Sherlock.

“From now on, you'll address me as 'Master,'” said Sherlock. “And you'll speak only when spoken to.” And then he walked out of the living room and locked himself in his room for the rest of the morning.

* * *

John made himself more tea and sat at the table sipping it. His stomach had tightened up into a knot. He didn't know what to do. Sherlock hadn't given him any orders and after Mycroft's visit, he was too afraid to use his own discretion to start on anything, lest it not be what Sherlock wanted. The rules had changed again, but he wasn't sure to what. All he knew was that he didn't want Sherlock telling him to “heel.”

And that was more distressing than anything that Mycroft had said or done. Why the fuck did that one word hold so much terror over him? He’d never been this much of a wimp before. He'd endured more brutal blows on the damn Rugby field. No one word should hold a candle to Afghanistan. What was a few seconds of pain compared to a regular soup of testosterone and agony and flat out terror. He’d handled both and come back for more. Why was this different? Why was this _worse?_ Was it because the collar was in his brain, the seat of his being, and he couldn’t defend himself from it? Was the collar, as rarely used as it was, starting to work on him? Was he that much weaker than he used to be?

No. He was much tougher than this. He could do it, he damn well would do it: Suffer and stand up and suffer again until it became obvious to Sherlock and Mycroft and whoever the hell else might be behind this, that the collar was ineffective. That or die. Either way, he’d win.

The bravado rang hollow. Something in him wasn’t that strong at all. It was broken and grieving for all the things he wanted so bad, but were gone. _Oh God, I don’t want to die. Fuck. I liked Sherlock. Why did it have to be like this? Why couldn’t Mycroft have left us alone?_ John gripped the handle of his empty tea mug and stared at the brown dregs at the bottom.

The next second his train of thought was completely forgotten. The door to Sherlock's room banged open. John jumped to his feet and stood automatically, blood pressure rocketing up, as Sherlock stalked into the middle of the living room with long, purposeful strides. His eyes met John’s and challenged them. John braced himself, mentally and physically. 

“I want diced pan-fried potatoes and ham for lunch,” he said. 

Anticlimax. _Thank God, just a pedestrian order… John started to breathe._

“None for you though,” Sherlock continued. “Mycroft was right, you need to learn your place. Eating together was a mistake, it made us both think of you as an equal. From now on you will serve me my meals and then stand by at my side in case I need anything. Do you understand?” 

“Yes. Sir.” John bit out, feeling his face tighten up with bitter determination. “Anything else, sir!” 

“Yes, there’s something else. Heel, John,” said Sherlock. He turned his head away and seemed oblivious as John grabbed the counter and hissed. When John’s eyes cleared he saw Sherlock grab the newspaper off the coffee table. “From now on you need to show a deferential attitude. Act congenial, happy to serve. Eager to serve.” He turned around and sat down in the chair by the window.

“Fake it you mean?” said John, his heart pounding, and unwanted feelings of betrayal washing over him. _I thought we were in this together_. “You never wanted me to do that before.”

Sherlock glared. “Heel, John.” John sagged, biting back a yell. Oh, God, he hated that word. There were tears in the corners of his eyes and not entirely from the pain.

“Although you may find this impossibly difficult, try not to be a complete idiot,” said Sherlock. His voice was casually dismissive. “Mycroft asked you for complete honesty, I didn't. For him, you will be the surly ungrateful bastard that you truly are. For me, you will do your damnedest to be biddable and pleasing, even if it requires all your acting skills. It should be possible. In your former career as a hardened terrorist, I’m sure you’ve acquired some _small_ ability to dissemble.” Sherlock glanced his way. “Of course, I'll be able to tell you are faking it, but it's act that counts.”

John’s nostrils flared. The temptation to say something nasty was enormous, but he curbed it. Barely. Barely wasn’t enough.

“Heel —“ John didn’t hear the rest. He didn’t need to. His body heard it for him. He was floating. He was gone. Below him his body collapsed to the floor and jerked.

“And don’t pretend to be surprised I’m ordering you to do this, either,” Sherlock’s voice rang out, coldly, from far, far away. “You were there when Mycroft gave his ultimatum. Either we both comply with his agenda, or you go elsewhere. And I’m not having you go elsewhere. _You are mine._ ” The last words were said with such intensity that Sherlock’s voice trembled. “I’ve been given strict orders to punish you _ruthlessly_ if you don't conform to my least whim. I’ve been ordered to make it as difficult as I can for you. I can't think of anything more humiliating and difficult for a man as proud as you than to pretend you enjoy slavery. So there we have it, welcome to Hell, John.” 

John had absolutely nothing to say to that. He was himself again, sitting awkwardly on the floor like a beaten dog. His determination had faltered. _Just get through now, I can sort things out later._

“There. Done killing me with your eyes for now?” Sherlock’s voice was dry and sarcastic. He leaned back in his seat and snapped the paper open, without looking at John he went on, “Good. Go start on my lunch, and make it good. Unless you want more punishment.” 

John didn't. He couldn't take another jolt of the collar. Pulling himself awkwardly off the floor, he started in on making Sherlock his lunch. Fury burned low in his stomach, not the clean boil of outrage, but the simmer of humiliation. Even the tiny things irritated him unbearably. He'd planned on using this ham for a pasta supper, damn it. He'd have to go to the store again now. And if Sherlock was going to dictate the menu from now on, John had no idea what he should pick up. While he worried that over, he managed to overcook the potatoes and nearly added the end of his index finger to the ham. As he threw the dish on a plate, it looked to him rather dry and unappetisingly plain. It was an embarrassment. 

But apparently the collar didn't care how good the results were, because the moment he handed it to Sherlock, it gave him a nice strong wave of pleasure. John sighed. His muscles unclenched. Relief of stress almost brought tears to his eyes again.

He then stood as ordered at Sherlock's elbow, waiting for him to give him further orders. Sherlock was, as John expected, fussy. He demanded salt and pepper for his potatoes. Then had John search the cupboards for paprika. Having found a decrepit jar of that buried in the back, he dubiously brought it out. Sherlock spiced his food some more, tasted it, then declared it unfit to eat.

“This is absolutely awful,” Sherlock berated. “Congratulations, John, I don’t think it’s even possible to go more wrong with the immensely simple task I gave you. Not only did you waste perfectly good ingredients into a mess fit only for the rubbish bin, but you wasted my time. I shall have to wait, hungry, whilst you make me something better. And I can only hope you manage to do it this time.”

“I’m sorry, master,” said John, it wasn’t until after the word was out that John had realised he’d said it. 

“Much better.” Sherlock smiled, and John felt a heady wave of relief. “Very well, toss this out and try again. This time I want soup. Perhaps you’ll find that easier to handle in your distracted state.”

The relief evaporated. Soup? Seriously? John had never made soup before in his life. He didn’t have the slightest notion of _how_ to make soup, at least not the type that involved more than opening a tin. And clearly that’s not what Sherlock meant at all. John was about to declare that he needed to go to the store when Sherlock pulled up a recipe from the internet that, surprisingly enough, they had all the ingredients for. John looked over the daunting list of steps and took a deep breath.

“This will take me over forty minutes to make,” he warned Sherlock. “Master.” He added hastily, seeing the dark look in Sherlock's eyes.

“I can wait,” Sherlock replied back. He went back to his newspaper. “But not forever, get started.”

There was nothing to do for it. John began preparing the ingredients, and finally, forty-five sweaty minutes later, produced the soup. By this time his stomach was rumbling. The smell of the soup was very good and it was difficult not to sample more than needed. He knew that Sherlock was watching him to see him slip up and do something non-slave-like, so he didn't. What sips he did take told him that he’d produced a damn fine soup. He felt a bit of pride creeping back, like a much needed, though not entirely welcome, friend. He didn’t want to feel good about servitude, but he did, desperately, want to feel good.

He brought out a bowl and dished up the soup. This time Sherlock didn't complain. He simply ate and stared at the paper now spread across the kitchen table. John stood at his side, his stomach rumbling. The smell was agonisingly tempting. At least there was a bit more in the pot. Hopefully when Sherlock was done, he’d get to have it.

“Hungry?” Sherlock asked as he finished.

“Yes, sir,” said John without a trace of rebelliousness.

“This is too good for you. You can store the rest in the refrigerator, I’ll have it with supper. You may make yourself beans and toast. After you've cleaned the kitchen, of course.” His eyes never left the paper. Sherlock had been reading it for nearly two hours now. He must have read that damn thing three times over, if that’s what he was doing at all. John noticed that Sherlock’s hand was shaking a bit as he turned a page, but was too exhausted to assign any meaning to it. Instead he turned to the sink and began cleaning up the considerable mess left over from two full elaborate lunches. 

Finally, at nearly three, John heated up some beans and poured it over toast. He was damn hungry by that time; past the pleasant pangs and into the edge-of-nausea stage. The first few bites of toast went down quickly, killing the worst of the discomfort. But then, bite by bite, it sat like a hard, indigestible lump in his stomach. He ignored his distress, knowing that he was going to be damn hungry if he didn’t choke this down somehow. Knowing that Sherlock was looking for any reason to be pissed at him, and wasting food was definitely a reason. He forced another bite down. The food tasted like nothing in his mouth, just a vaguely warm texture mixed with a vaguely rough one. Maybe the beans were off.

His face suddenly broke out in a cold sweat and he stopped mid chew He couldn’t eat this. The minute he swallowed, he was going to throw it all up. John sat helplessly, not knowing what to do with the bite of food in his mouth, unable to eat it, and unable to dispose of it either.

“Eat,” ordered Sherlock, suddenly, from the living room. He’d put the well-read paper down and his eyes were watching John like a hawk.

With incredible difficulty, John swallowed, utterly steeled to start vomiting. Instead of nausea, pleasure broke over him. _Oh… yes…._. When the collar’s reward faded away, he found his stomach no longer clenched up. Like a miracle, the nausea was completely gone, and normal hunger was back. He attacked the rest of his toast ravenously.

“Interesting,” said Sherlock as John wiped his mouth and stood up. The dourness was gone from his thin face, replace with that keen excitement he got when he worked on his science. “Are you full enough?” he asked. “Or do you need more?”

John shook his head.

“Good, then I believe you said today was your day to do laundry?”

Sherlock was definitely himself again.

“Yes, sir. May I?” Escape, temporary as it was, sounded like a fantastic idea.

“I order you to do it.” 

John washed up his plate and quickly went to the hamper and stuffed the clothes into the laundry bag. In fifteen minutes he was out the door. The moment he was away from Sherlock, he felt a wave of relief. It was as if he could finally breathe again. Sherlock's orders were no farther away than a phone call, but still, it was a moment of freedom that neither of the Holmes brothers had seen fit to strip from him. He dropped the dry cleaning off first and made it to the laundromat.

* * *

And there was Sarah, back turned to him, pulling laundry out of one of the big tumblers at the back of the launderette. He’d forgotten about her. With everything else that had happened that day, she’d simply been shoved out of his mind. But there she was, pretty, blonde, slim and sophisticated. And thanks to his slave status, completely untouchable. Forbidden fruit. 

John put his hand to his throat, where his collar wasn’t. The scars on the back of his neck could pass for freckles if the person didn’t know better, and there was absolutely no reason this nice, ambitious Dr. Sarah Sawyer would know better. No she wouldn’t know at all would she. She seemed to think he was interesting and attractive. Such very tempting forbidden fruit. He had cash in his wallet. He could ask her to coffee.

No. Dear God, what insanity was he thinking. He shouldn’t be considering this. Not now. Not with Sherlock being such an unreasonable prick and Mycroft being like Satan himself. This was crazier than planting bombs. 

But oh, God, how he wanted it, like a drink of water in the desert. Someone who didn’t know anything about his past, his present, who treated him like a human being rather than an unruly dog. He needed someone to see him for him. Just a few minutes. It wasn’t like he was going to follow her to her place… but for a few minutes… he could be a man again.

Sarah turned and put her laundry basket on a table. Then she spotted him. “Hey you!” she called. “I was starting to think you weren't going to show up.”

“I got hung up,” said John. He smiled fantastically easily. Talk about dissembling. He walked over to where she was folding shirts. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “I'll try to make it here earlier next time.”

“Or I can come later,” said Sarah. She grinned. Then her eyes flickered up and down. Flirting.

Well, as long as they both were there… John smiled back.

And just like that, they hit it off. Even though Sarah was done with her laundry, she stuck around and talked while he did his and Sherlock's. And they talked, and talked, and talked. They talked about her hospital, and Afghanistan, and even a bit about France and the Colonies. He left out all his terrorist activities and gave her the tourist’s tour. She laughed at his jokes as she helped him sort and ball together Sherlock’s casual socks.

“I never took you for an argyle man,” she said, and then grabbed his trouser leg to attempt to see his socks. Laughing, he stepped out of her reach, but not before revealing his own much blander white athletic socks to her. “Aw. Boring!”

“Who does laundry in fancy socks,” He explained, when her face turned sulky. Although John was still laughing, inside his stomach gave a quick squeeze. What the hell was he doing? They were both acting half their age in a very public place. Making a scene. And the clothes, Thank god most of Sherlock’s clothes were dry cleaned, but the rest were entirely a different size, style and economic class from John’s own. Surely Sarah must have noticed they belonged to two different people. She wasn’t an idiot, eventually she’d put two and two together and wonder who this other man was. She’d probably assume he was gay before she realised his status, but that really wasn’t much better.

Sarah’s laugher died down. She frowned a bit. “What is it? Did you forget something? You look worried.”

“I — Nothing,” said John hastily.

John's phone went off. Goddamn it. He looked at the text. His heart went back into his chest when he saw it was only a list of ingredients to pick up at Tescos. He sighed with relief and dismissed the message.

“Nice mobile,” said Sarah. “Can I see it for a moment?” She held out her hand with such commanding entitlement that for a moment that John was strongly and unpleasantly reminded of Sherlock. A second later he realised she was just being playful. And now that she’d seen his worry she was getting suspicious. John quickly handed the phone over before she could wonder too much about his reluctance.

She grinned and turned away from him, using her body to hide what she was doing. For one horrifyingly paranoid moment he worried she was texting Sherlock back. John peered around her shoulder, but she just turned away again. The look on her face was devious. Finally, a minute later she handed it back. John looked at it stunned wondering what the hell she’d done. Ah, of course. Sarah had simply put her phone number into his address book.

“I know it’s kind of cheeky of me,” said Sarah, “But I really like you, John. What would you feel about grabbing some coffee tomorrow?”

 _Say no. Make an excuse,_ said the reasonable part of him. Who knew if Sherlock would even let him leave the flat? He had no way of controlling his schedule. She was going to find out eventually. Now was the time to call a halt to all this before it got any more serious.

Then he saw Sarah gritting her teeth with worried anticipation at the thought of rejection. 

“Sure,” he found his lips saying. 

Sarah burst into a smile. “Give me a call,” she said. Then she grabbed her laundry and walked to the door. “I’m free any time after two.” She opened the door with her hip and waved his way. “See you tomorrow, John.”

John kept grinning away until she’d disappeared out of sight through the plate glass window. And Christ, why was he smiling so much? He’d just invited disaster down upon himself. But it was disaster he was going to invite down on himself somehow anyway. Mycroft had that right, he wasn’t anywhere near broken.

And come to think of it, maybe meeting Sarah was the best thing that could have happened to him. She really liked him. They had a real connection. Maybe now that she’d seen him as a person, she wouldn’t simply dismiss him as a slave. There simply was no way a woman as smart and reasonable as Sarah could harbour prejudice against slaves. She was a doctor, after all. This collar would have to horrify her on some deep instinctive level as much as it did John.

Yes. Maybe with her help, and the resources at her surgery, he might have a chance of disabling the GPS part of his chip. No, strike that, that would put her too much at risk. Mycroft and Sherlock would be able to track her down far too easily. But she could be an intermediary. She could pass messages. Maybe with her help, he could get through to his allies in France. And they could disable the tracking device and maybe the collar itself. Or else shield it’s signal somehow. It was possible. Very possible. It’d be child’s play for a genius like Andre Gaboriau.

Well then. John breathed deeply. Okay. This was the mission. And if he was going to do this, he was going to do this smart. Sherlock would be damn difficult to deceive, but he already asked for lies, so perhaps he’d mistake one lie for another. He searched the launderette frantically for a moment, before finding a pencil stub and a scrap of paper. He took out the phone and quickly jotted Sarah’s number down, then erased the number from his phone book. 

Then, misery of the morning completely forgot, John whistled a tune as he headed down the street looking for a place to buy a cheap, disposable mobile. By god, he had a plan.


	5. Chapter 5

Supper wasn’t quite the humiliating experience lunch was. Sherlock accepted the food John cooked without much acknowledgment. He ate little of it, then told John to take care of himself however he saw fit. John, not particularly wanting to make another meal for himself, and loathe to waste both good food and his own effort, took Sherlock’s plate, cut away the part that Sherlock had touched, and ate the rest. Sherlock noticed, of course, but he didn’t say anything about it. He’d retreated to the sofa for another session of napping — or possibly thinking.

Sighing, John retrieved the laptop from it’s spot on the bookcase. Time to get the damn words over. He really didn’t feel like writing. 

He took the laptop to the table and opened it up and stared blankly at the screen. For the last week he’d been writing impassioned essays on the horrors of slavery, it’s immorality, it’s impracticality, it’s hypocrisy, all in the hopes that _some of it_ would reach Mycroft’s heart. Mycroft’s reaction that morning showed that it had all been for nothing. Whatever lay in that man’s chest, wasn’t human. There was no reaching something that simply didn’t exist.

Anger that had largely submerged itself that afternoon burst up again. He wasn’t going to waste any more effort on Mycroft. He had to fill a word count, but he didn’t have to put any thought or care into it. And, in fact, it was probably better that he didn’t. If Mycroft couldn’t be appealed to, the next best thing would be to lull him. Perhaps if he wrote something bland and domestic, Mycroft would think that Sherlock’s orders were beginning to have an effect on him, that he was becoming the dull automaton this damn collar was designed to produce. That would mesh better with John’s long term plans with Sarah. John wrote a hundred words on making soup and stopped mid sentence as soon as he’d reached his goal. It was possibly the most half-assed thing he’d ever written in his life. 

Closing the computer down he went up to his room to ready himself for the night. 

“John,” he heard sharply from behind him.

“Yes, master,” said John, his heart suddenly beating much faster. He turned and saw Sherlock messing with his phone. For half a second he worried that it was _his_ phone (they were identical), but a quick pat found that still in his pocket. Nor was it the cheap phone that John had bought at Tescos that afternoon. That was wrapped in a plastic bag and hidden under the rubbish in the back of the building. 

Sherlock glanced up from the screen to meet John’s eyes, and damn if there wasn’t something calculating about that stare. John felt for certain that Sherlock had somehow seen completely through him. “I have no further need of you tonight, go to bed.”

John deflated. _Was that all? That skewering stare just for that?_

“Well?” said Sherlock. “Go.”

Apparently it was. “Thank you, Master.” John turned and mounted the steps to his bedroom, eager to get away. In the safety of Sherlock’s laboratory, he stripped to his underthings and then went through the nightly ritual of inflating his bed. The sharp smell of chemicals from Sherlock’s laboratory mixed with dustiness. 

Home sweet home.

* * *

Sherlock woke him just before six a.m by kneeling next to the bed and shaking him. John jerked to wakefulness with a scream pressed against his lips. For a second he had no idea where or when he was. Afghanistan? Oregon? Then he came down from his instinctive terror to the disconcerting feeling of Sherlock’s hands gripping his upper arms. Just Sherlock. Just Baker Street. Just another day of slavery.

“Wake up! Wake up now!”

“What’s wrong?” John’s eyes now searched the room. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. It was still very dark; the first creeping light of dawn had made the window a slightly paler rectangle and the laboratory equipment was nothing more than dim shadows. Sherlock himself was like a looming homunculi, crouched to his side and reaching over him.

Sherlock rocked back on his heels. “Nothing is wrong. It’s time for you to be awake. I have to head out on a new case within the hour. I’d like my breakfast. And it’s ‘master.” Or at minimum ‘sir.’” 

For craps sake. John pushed his heart back in his chest and sat up. He was still bone tired. “Master what would you like for breakfast.”

“I’m not picky today. Whatever you can find that you can make in less than ten minutes. Make sure you make enough for yourself as well. There may not be an opportunity for you to eat until much later.” Sherlock stood. “Up, up, don’t make me punish you.”

John stood up and nearly groaned as the bliss took him. The collar. The goddamn collar. Even the tiniest stupid order triggered it. In the dark, Sherlock must not have realised its effect, because he continued with the barrage or orders, utterly heedless of the consequences to John. “Quickly, quickly, turn on the light. Now off with your pyjamas, don’t be modest, I’ve seen it all before. Here, this shirt. Put it on. These trousers will do. 

John was trying to put on his trousers while his collar sent soothing shock after shock through him. He’s muscles felt like jelly under the assault. His cock, quite on it’s own accord, grew heavy and half-hard. John hoped the dim light and the angle of his body hid the fact.

Sherlock wasn’t paying attention. He was rifling through the closet John had half-claimed for his own. “Tell me where you’ve hidden your socks!”

“They are in the lowest drawer of the filing cabinet,” John managed to grit out. And then was hit again by yet another wave of pleasure for answering.

Sherlock turned to the filing cabinet, barely affording him half a glance to check the state of John’s dress. “Stop dawdling, man, we’re in a hurry. Here’s those socks, put them on,” he tossed a pair of balled socks at John’s feet. Wobbling under the assault of his collar, John leaned down for them. “No, don’t brain yourself, man, sit down, you look like you are about to collapse. Now put them on.”

John practically fell on the lilo. His hands trembled as he put he put the socks on. He tried to get his shoes before Sherlock ordered him to wear them, but Sherlock’s mouth was far faster than he could make his muscles work. “Stop!” he said desperately. “I’ll put on my clothes — just stop ordering me!”

“Heel, John.”

Pain should have cancelled out his the pleasure the collar was giving him, but it didn’t. Instead he was levered into that same confused state he’d been in when Sherlock had whipped him a week ago. The world was gone. For that second nothing existed but pleasure and pain, each making the other more exquisite. And then as if all the emotion and energy and sensation had to go somewhere, it pushed into his sexual centres. His cock, trapped awkwardly against his thigh by his trousers, throbbed. For a second, just as he came down off the high, he worried that he might just ejaculate in his pants. But he didn’t. Instead his balls ached.

Christ that was close. Unconsciously, John grabbed his groin and readjusted himself so that his inseam didn’t pinch quite so bad and willed himself to soften before Sherlock noticed.

Too late. “No time for playing with yourself, John, we’ve a case. ” Sherlock’s voice had a trace of teasing amusement. John went through ten stages of mortification, all of which were lost on Sherlock, as the detective turned his back on John and headed out the door, and down the narrow attic steps to the main floor.

By the time John reached the kitchen, he was largely composed again. He was half-steeled for teasing, or worse, a long verbal examination by Sherlock on the obvious effects the collar had on him. The scientist in Sherlock would be curious of course, and his arsehole side probably couldn’t resist. But by the time John reached the kitchen, Sherlock seemed to have already forgotten the incident. He was already pouring the tea, a job that had been exclusively John’s since the day he’d arrived. Grudgingly, John’s mind moved away from his own wrecked dignity to consider that perhaps Sherlock genuinely _was_ in a hurry.

John set bread to toast. “How much do you want?” he asked.

“Oh nothing for me,” said Sherlock hurriedly. “I never eat before a case. Interferes with the thinking. Make as much as you think you’ll need yourself. We may not have an opportunity for you to eat for some time. Oh, don’t just stand there, John!” he snapped. “Detective Inspector Lestrade has put a crime scene on hold. If I take too long his forensics team will doubtless trample the evidence.”

John found himself jamming mostly dry toast down his throat while he put on a coat, his tea, half-drunk, left on the table. Sherlock pulled him along to a cab, barking out directions to the cabbie in the same voice he’d earlier commanded John. Still more than a little half-stunned by the speed of events, John vaguely appreciated that there really hadn’t been anything personal about the way Sherlock had ordered him around like a recalcitrant toddler. He apparently ordered _everyone_ around that way.

As he relaxed into that idea, another surged to the fore: _Sarah!_

John had been helping Sherlock with his cases, in one capacity or another, from day one, but this was the first time Sherlock actually brought John along with him when he went out. On one hand, it was an opportunity for John to see the man in action, something he’d been aching to do since Sherlock regaled him with that first story of a case. On the other hand… Sarah! She was expecting him to call and set up a time for their coffee date. A date that Sherlock would certainly not allow if he got wind of it. 

No, it’s still early, he told himself. Sarah wouldn’t appreciate a call at half-past six am in any case. If they were finished by early afternoon, he could slip away on the pretext of dinner shopping and neither she nor Sherlock would be any the wiser.

Reassured, he followed Sherlock out of the cab and into a unoccupied house in Bromley. An officer stopped Sherlock just inside the police line. “Who is he?” the woman asked in a distrustful voice.

“My assistant,” said Sherlock.

This clearly didn’t sit well with her. “You? Hire an assistant? Impossible. No seriously, Holmes, who is he? Some friend of yours come to gawp at a dead body? Another pervert who gets off on crime? Either way, he can’t come in. Hell, you shouldn’t be coming in. You’ll contaminate the crime scene.”

“My assistant and he’s coming in,” Sherlock repeated, his voice deadly firm. “Don’t presume to know about me, Sally, your investigative skills are so embarrassingly poor, if it weren’t for the need of someone of your gender to fill a quota, you wouldn’t be here yourself.”

John’s eyes widened at the callous way Sherlock reeled off the insult. What the fuck was the man up to? Who the hell talked like that to a _police officer._

Sally herself seemed to have gone grey with shock. “That’s _Officer Donovan_ to you,” she managed, once her fury died down enough. “And I swear Holmes, you make an enemy out of me and you’ll sorely regret it.”

Sherlock levelled a faux-surprised look. “Are you suggesting we aren’t already enemies? Because that really doesn’t improve my opinion of your investigative skills.”

“Sherlock!” came a sharp voice from the door. A middle aged man, prematurely grey, stood in the doorway, flicking his wrist in their direction. Sherlock stepped quickly his way. “My assistant, Lestrade,” Sherlock said to answer the man’s questioning gaze. “I figured it was time I found myself a protege.”

John said nothing. He wasn’t sure what Sherlock’s game was. Lestrade, with his keen roving eyes, made him nervous. In the past, John had worked hard to avoid the notice of people like him, and every instinct now told him to saunter casually the fuck away.

“Does he have any skill?” asked Lestrade.

“He’s well versed in explosives, guns and various improvised weaponry as well as security systems and breaking and entering techniques. He’s hands on experience with terrorists. In addition he has a medical degree and extensive army experience. I dare say he has a richer background than any of the men — and woman — under you.”

Lestrade looked impressed up until the last words. Then his face grew stony and his eyes sharpened disapprovingly. “You leave Sally be, Sherlock. She can make things very difficult for you. I don’t care how many strings your brother can pull out of his arse, you are on thin ice with the Yard already. Much more and I won’t be able to call on you anymore.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I solve cases, Lestrade. She puts a politically correct face on the Yard. Tell me which is more important.”

“You sell her short, Sherlock,” said Lestrade. “I don’t hire incompetent people. Sally Donovan holds her own, which even you would admit if you didn’t have this childish feud going with her. Stop it.” Lestrade turned to John. “Tell him to stop it.”

Awkwardly, under the weight of expectation, John turned to Sherlock and said, “Stop it.” The collar rewarded him.

_What the fuck!_

Lestrade didn’t seem to notice but Sherlock’s eyes locked onto his as it happened. Then he turned to Lestrade. “Very well, I shall give Officer Donovan a heartfelt apology on the way out. Meanwhile you have a corpse cooling. May we see it?”

Lestrade nodded and lead them up the stairs. John, taken more off guard than he had expected dragged behind as they climbed the stairs to the second floor. He felt a tug on his shoulder and saw Sherlock standing on the landing, reaching over the corner of the rail to grab him. Lestrade had disappeared in an open doorway at the end of the upper floor hall. John trotted up the last steps as Sherlock pulled him close enough to whisper in his ear.

“Relax, all slaves have been programmed to follow the orders of police officers. Can’t have a owner such as myself ordering his slave to cause a disturbance.”

“Any officer?” John asked, looking back down the stairs. He could barely see Officer Sally Donovan’s leg through the open door.

“Any officer. It was in the brochure if you read it closely enough.”

“Christ.”

“Why do you think I didn’t introduce you as my slave. So long as they don’t know, they won’t order you about.” Sherlock winked. “Now come along.”

Not exactly reassured, John followed him. The house had been stripped down to the bare walls and hardwood floors for sale, but on the second floor a wooden chair had been splintered to large but identifiable chunks. There were dents in the wall plaster. And in the centre of the room, a man lay sprawled on his stomach, a pool of blood spread thickly around his battered body.

Sherlock knelt by the body, he lifted an arm and dropped it. “Not dead long. Two hours? John?”

John blinked and brought his mind back into gear. He tested the flexibly of the arm as well, and looked at the nails. “Yes, about two hours.”

“His clothes are wet. There was a squall that went by around five am. He was meeting someone here. Someone he knew but didn’t trust.”

“How do you know that?” asked Lestrade.

“He allowed himself to be lead to the second floor of an empty building at an ungodly hour of the morning, detective inspector. Had it been a stranger, he’d have struggled earlier and the fight would have taken place out in the yard or in the anteroom. But he didn’t fight, not until he came here. And yet he was not entirely trustful of the man who led him here, as he brought a weapon.” Sherlock pointed a gloved hand at what John had initially taken as part of the chair, but now saw the wood was a slightly different colour.

“That’s a weapon?” asked Lestrade. “It’s just a stick.” The detective inspector looked from Sherlock to John.

“A stick is as good as a club,” said John, feeling he had to put something or lose what little credibility he had for being there.

“Very true,” said Sherlock. “And considerably easier to come by at 4 am.” Sherlock searched the edge of the corpses long coat and lifted something up out of the coagulated mess. “A ring box.” He snapped it open. “Empty — now. It had a ring in it not long ago. A woman’s ring from the size of the indentation. Size … five and a half. A small woman. The ring was stolen. The box was dropped before this man collapsed and lay on it.” He turned back to the man. “Ah, American. The coat is manufactured in Washington Colony. It might be found at a second hand shop or a specialty outwear shop, but as it isn’t a particularly well made or popular manufacture, so it unlikely he’d find it as an import. Therefore he bought it in the colonies. Look, that tattoo on the inside of his wrist signifies he’s part of a gang.” Sherlock referred to his phone. “Yes. Yes. The talons, they are a gang that hails in Seattle.” Sherlock stopped and stared across the room. “That’s interesting.”

John turned his head. On the wall, someone had quite deliberately drawn a stripe of vertical stripe of blood, three inches long, five feet off the floor.

Sherlock stood up, handing the bloody case to Lestrade. “Yes, I saw that,” the older man said, pointing with his chin at the mark. “Do you have any idea of it’s significance? It’s obviously deliberate. I’d wager it was made with the victim’s blood.”

“Oh yes. It’s very significant,” murmured Sherlock in much the same sultry voice that he used when when John had done something that particularly pleased him. “It means that our killer isn’t done. There will be more bodies, Lestrade. And soon.”

Lestrade straightened up. “How do you get that?”

“It’s a tally mark, Lestrade,” said Sherlock. “A tally mark in blood. One, nothing.”

* * *

“So there will be more,” said Lestrade, as they exited the room. Sherlock had finished his survey to his satisfaction and it was obvious to John that Lestrade, though eager for Sherlock’s help, was even more relieved that he’d stopped poking the evidence about. John had no real idea what the typical police process of a crime scene was, but he was pretty certain that Sherlock’s fingers weren’t part of it. The fact that Lestrade allowed him to muck about at all seemed to be equal parts due to respect for Sherlock’s abilities and fear for Mycroft’s “strings.” John vaguely wondered why he was surprised that Mycroft might stick his meddling nose into London’s Finest’s business. In retrospect, it seemed logical.

“A score of one would hardly be worth tallying,” Sherlock said dryly to Lestrade as they skipped back down the stairs, turning sideways to allow the forensics team to file past them.

Lestrade nodded, then turned to John. “Learning anything about his methods?”

“Lots,” said John, fighting the defensive urge to avoid the Detective Inspector’s eyes. The first thing John learned about avoiding unwanted attention was to cultivate an aura that he belonged wherever he happened to be and had a perfect right to be doing whatever it was he was doing. As long as he seemed confident, he rarely earned a second look. On the other hand, start shying away and people look for a reason why. Police especially were attuned to guilt the way a hunting dog is attuned to the scent of pray. And now John, despite his efforts at nonchalance, could see that Lestrade had sniffed him out.

At the bottom of the stairs, Lestrade confirmed it by grabbing John’s elbow and stopping him. “I don’t think Sherlock actually gave me your full name, John,” he said. “I need to know it for the paperwork.” His eyes narrowed. “You do seem familiar somehow. I’m very good with faces — have we crossed paths before?”

“I don’t believe so,” said John, trying to be both stoic and suave, though his insides were flipping and he felt anything but.

Sherlock spun on his heel in the tiled anteroom and faced Lestrade. “Direct your questions to me, if you please. His name, for your records, is John Watson.”

Lestrade looked bemused for a moment, both by Sherlock’s behaviour and by the name. “John Watson. John Wats— A doctor? Army?” A light seemed to go on behind his eyes. Lestrade let go of John in favour of grabbing Sherlock and pulling him into the large empty sitting room. John hesitated to follow, but Sherlock flicked his fingers at him: come. John took a deep breath and complied.

“Are you _nuts?_ ” Lestrade hissed as Sherlock closed the door behind them to gain them some privacy. “Why is he not in jail right now?”

“It’s unnecessary.”

“What do you mean unnecessary — ‘familiar with terrorists’ — he _is_ a terrorist!” Lestrade’s face flushed. John was torn between wanting to fade into the wall with shame, and brimming with pride that his reputation would provoke this sort of reaction.

“Was a terrorist,” said Sherlock. “He’s reformed.”

“In — what — two weeks? Three at most since that big raid? I don’t believe it.” Lestrade turned to John. “Do you really regret your abolitionism?”

“No,” said John firmly. He perversely relished the fresh look of trepidation on Lestrade’s face.

Sherlock sighed. “He’s in the process of being reformed. Mycroft — that brother of mine who, as you so delicately put it, pulls strings from his arse — has deemed him worthy of being rehabilitated. He’s in an experimental collar which uses both positive and negative feedback to reinforce good behaviour. It’s his feeling that if a man such as John can be turned into a useful, productive member of society, that anyone can.”

“Collar,” said Lestrade. “So he’s already a slave. Mighty quick pushing through that paperwork. But never mind. I don’t care. How does this effect me? What should I do with him?” He lifted a device from his belt. John recognised it as a three button clicker. If he’d been wearing a standard slave collar, Lestrade could point, tune and deliver pain, unconsciousness or death to him, all with no more than a thumb to a button. “Will this work on him? I don’t even see his collar.”

“No, it won’t, and thank goodness,” said Sherlock quickly, eyeing the clicker with distain. “He responds to verbal orders. But I’d appreciate it if you left him entirely to me. His domestication is in a delicate phase right now and having multiple people ordering might confuse him. If you have any objection whatsoever to his behaviour, simply let me know and I will punish him swiftly.”

“Delicate phase… ah Christ.” Lestrade ran a hand through his short grey hair. “So I take it you’d rather I not inform my people of his status. Why else would he be without a visible collar.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock fervently. “Eventually it will come out, but not until he’s learned to accept his new status better. He’s not completely broken.”

John closed his eyes. Broken. And it didn’t seem like Sherlock was simply paying lip service to Mycroft’s agenda. Even Sherlock expected, no, wanted him broken. God, he didn’t want to break.

“And so you’ve taken him as a protege,” said Lestrade. His hand had smoothed its way down to the nape of his neck, where it rubbed as if he’d developed a headache. “I sure the hell hope you know what you are getting yourself into. You could be cultivating a monster.”

“I know perfectly well what I’m doing.” Sherlock walked over to John who froze in his spot, unsure of how to react. He couldn’t help flinching when Sherlock rubbed the side of his cheek with the back of his fingers. Petting. A small odd smile quirked up on Sherlock’s face as he withdrew his hand. “He’s quite a marvellous specimen, once you get to know him, Lestrade. Not a brute at all. He’s got very deep principles — wrong headed perhaps, poorly directed, but nonetheless solid. I envy him that.” Sherlock turned back to Lestrade. “I firmly believe in what Mycroft is attempting to do here. A man like John would be wasted in jail. Or worse, dead. So yes. He’s my protege. I will turn him into something unobjectionable.”

Lestrade looked deep into John’s eyes for a moment, then shook his head one last time and walked back out. “Very well. He’s your responsibility, Sherlock. Don’t let him become mine.”

John for his part was utterly undone by the flattery. He’d had no idea that Sherlock admired him for _anything_. He wasn’t even sure, until this moment, that Sherlock _could_ admire anyone. 

Sherlock took one look at his face and then rolled his eyes. “Oh please, John. Don’t let a little praise knock out what meagre brains you possess. We have a job to do here, and it won’t get done with you preening. Did you not see the viciousness of the blows on that man? The killer knows he’ll be eventually caught, he won’t waste any time in taking out his next target. This will be a bloody day if we don’t get to the bottom of it soon.”

* * *

And to the bottom they raced. Literally at times. John hadn’t run this much since Afghanistan. Thankfully, his sore knee decided to take the morning off. John didn’t even notice that he was pain free, until Sherlock made an offhanded comment about it. And then John didn’t know quite what to say. The injury had always come and gone, perhaps it was a sign that things were looking up for him.

Despite the eight hour time difference, Sherlock was able to get ahold of the police in Washington Colony and not only ID the victim, but have his rap sheet faxed to the MET. His name was Doug Plank and he had quite a reputation as a small time thug in Seattle. His list of “accomplishments” went on and on: Drugs, pimping, assault, a string of non-violent thefts so redundant that John hadn’t bothered to read all of them, and finally, buried at the bottom as if it were of no particular importance, suspicion of murder. John found himself wondering how Plank had avoided the collar for as long as he had, and then blushed with the shame of it. No one deserved a collar — not even this guy. 

“What do you know of the Seattle Police,” Sherlock had asked as the two of them sat in the living room of 221B, side by side on the sofa, lap tops open, scouring Seattle’s newspapers for articles concerning the Plank’s various alleged misdeeds. The police records were far too sketchy to be of much use. “Did you have any run ins at all with them during your time in the Colonies?”

“No, I never got farther North than Portland.”

“Pity,” he looked at the printed rap sheet spread across the coffee table. “They appear to be utterly incompetent. Of all these arrests, the only conviction was a single count of possession of narcotics. Thirty days in jail. The murder appears to have been particularly bungled. He should not have been allowed to leave the colony with a charge like that pending against him. Look at this mess, John. They didn’t even list the victim’s _name_.” He flapped the faxes in John’s direction, but before John could get a clear look at it he snatched it back. “Ah wait. Thank god for dates.” He turned to his laptop made a few judicious clicks. “This must be it, Shelly Cho. A random passer-by caught in a drive by shooting. Who says the wild west has disappeared? She was due to be married in two days — that’s it! The ring, John. I will wager my reputation that that box contained a wedding ring.” 

Sherlock’s face fell a bit and the excitement seemed momentarily to drain out of it. “Well, you are about to witness something I rarely have to admit,” he said suddenly.

“Sir?” John asked tentatively, closing the lid of the slick laptop Mycroft had given him. Sherlock obviously had found what he needed.

“I made a mistake. Big one, too. The ring at the crime scene wasn’t stolen. The one who brought it, also took it. It belonged to him. The box was soiled in the fight, so he left it. But the ring was precious — it belonged, would have belonged, to his dead fiance. That’s the reason for the viciousness, John. Revenge. The promise of a lifetime of love snuffed out by a callous bullet.”

John raised a brow. Sherlock rarely waxed poetical about anything. Apparently even he had a bit of a soft spot. “So both victim and murderer are American. What are they doing in England?”

“Exactly.” Sherlock covered his face with his long fingers and thought.

* * *

Before Sherlock could suss it out, Lestrade had called back. At ten a.m. the employees of a fruit-and-nut import business and found their boss beaten to a pulp in his own office. A silver letter opener was lying on the floor some five feet away from the corpse — a panicked excuse for a weapon. On the wall behind the desk, between the two windows were two bloody stripes. Two — zero.

Lestrade shook his head. “The sheer viciousness…” His gaze landed on the corpse. “Drugs you think? I hear PCP is rather popular in the colonies.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Sherlock answered. “There’s rage here, but also precision. There’s planning. Someone high could not move so invisibly from one crime site to the next. No signs of forced entry — he let his killer in, but why would he open his doors before business hours to a foreigner? Bah, this doesn’t make sense,” said Sherlock. 

“Based on lividity, I’d place the time of death around seven,” said John as he examined the corpse. Lestrade stared at him speculatively for a second, but then nodded. “No one moved the corpse,” John went on, emboldened. “Death due to repeated blunt trauma to the head.”

“Death due to the contents of his skull being deposited on the carpet,” corrected Sherlock. “Now that John has stated the utterly obvious, we look at the real evidence. The killer is between six feet and six two. Sixteen and a half stone, but not fat. Weightlifter, able to comfortably bench 150kg. Amateur boxer. Unattractive face. Do we have a name for him yet? The Seattle police refuse to work with me. They say that I should check with you.”

Lestrade gave a wry look, “They called to say are still looking for67 the name of fiance. The main file appears to be with one of their investigators, and he hasn’t answered his phone.”

Sherlock tsked impatiently.

John stared down at the corpse. “How could you possibly figure that out? His attractiveness I mean. I can see getting the height and weight from the angle of the wound, and I suppose the damage is indicative of his bench-press strength — but _unattractive?_ How can the victim’s injuries possibly show the assailant’s attractiveness?”

“The Seattle press included a picture of Cho,” said Sherlock. “I believe the term is ‘butterface’. Like is attracted to like.”

“A seven marries a seven,” said John, nodding.

“And in this case a three marries a three. Unless there is some mitigating factor, such as wealth or fame or talent, which there doesn’t appear to be.” He clapped his hands as if it remove the dirt, then nodded at Lestrade. “The corpse is yours, but I need access to the files. I need to know what possible connection this man has to Cho and her vengeful fiance. John,” he snapped his fingers. “Come.”

John followed him, and even though he he noticed that Sherlock had called him like a dog, somehow he was unable to muster any outrage about it.

* * *

For the next two hours, John read through shipping manifests. His eyes started to cross. Apples. Filberts. And not terribly cheap ones either. It bothered John’s sense of order and rightness more and more as he went on. While Yakima produced some tasty fruit it hardly seemed worth while airfreighting it all the way London, especially at these prices. What was wrong with the local crop? That’s what John wondered. What company would pay a premium for such things? And in such weird amounts… 34 lb. of nuts. 18 lb. of apples. One factory had ordered five crates of nuts, in three different random weights. Wouldn’t it have been simpler to divide the nuts up into even allotments?

Wait a second…

Then suddenly the yellow slip under his fingers seemed to sharpen. The sweep of the pen, the dust, the chemical smell, the slightly dog-eared edges, all stood out in high relief. John’s heart beat loudly.

“Sherlock!” he called out, his voice quavering just a bit. “Sherlock!” he called louder. 

There was the thumping of feet and Sherlock poked his head into the filing room. “What is it?”

“These people don’t import fruit and nuts.”

Sherlock sighed as if John had stated something stupid again. “Well, obviously not. I’m still figuring out what it is. Probably weapons.”

“No,” said John. “Slaves. They are importing slaves from Washington Colony.” He handed Sherlock the yellow sheet. “Apples — women. Nuts — men. Crude. The weight would be their ages. Notice that they all are between 18 and 35. That’s the prime age for slaves.”

A broad smile creeped across Sherlock’s face. He impulsively grabbed John around the shoulders and squeezed. “Oh, yes. I _knew_ you’d be useful to me. I knew it. Yes, exactly right. The Seattle police must in in on it. And their jailers as well. There simply aren’t enough slaves to feed the needs of these bigger companies. And what with the disruptions in supply from Oregon, it looks as if it’s sister colony has taken up the slack with a bit of illegal entrepreneurship. The British company gets slaves on demand, Washington colony keeps the all the cash. The Empire gets nothing.” Sherlock let him go and began rifling through he files John had looked at and discarded.

 _The disruptions in supply from Oregon…_ John sat back, feeling sick. “Are you suggesting that what I was doing in Oregon lead to this company selling illegal slaves here?”

Sherlock looked up. “What?” his voice was tinged with irritation. “Oh, you feel _guilty.”_ Sherlock nearly spat the words, so heavy was his distain. “Done’s done, John. You can’t blow up the records of twenty-thousand slaves and cause the cancellation of eight major auctions without there being some fall out. The hunger for slaves remains steady, even if the supply dwindles. Those with the resources will get their pounds of human flesh one way or another, and criminals will fill in where legitimate authorities fail.” Sherlock was giving John only half his attention. The rest was to a large file of yellow manifests. “It’s always the way of things, above board or black market — until the demand is gone, there will always be a supply.”

John pressed his lips together. “How do you propose we get rid of the demand?”

“I don’t propose anything. Not my area, John,” said Sherlock. “If you really care to know, solving problems of that nature is more Mycroft’s love. Next Wednesday you can bring it up with him.”

John snorted. “But he _likes_ slavery. It makes a lot of money for the crown.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Well, that would be a problem then. Forgive me, John, I know this is a huge matter to you, but matters of politics and policy are a dreadful bore, and I have an actual crime here to work on. And it keeps getting bigger and more deliciously complicated as time passes. So, take these,” Sherlock put several files in John’s hands, “And give me the names of everyone you can find. If I’m to get ahead of the murderer, I need to know who he’s targeting next.”

Another corpse was found an hour later, this time in a posh hotel next to Heathrow. Though it was the third found, the tally mark was up to five. Somewhere out there were two other bodies. The team investigating had swollen. Gregsson and Dimmock were now on board. Neither of them liked Sherlock much, but they were resigned to his interference. From little John could glean from their expressions and indirect responses, it was more a matter of bruised professional pride than anything else. They didn’t like the fact that Sherlock had shown them up in the past, and they weren’t very excited to see him doing it now either.

Sherlock was oblivious to the chilly looks. His eyes danced and his wiry body grew more energetic as the day went on. Now he examined the corpse of a charter airline pilot. His corpse was a bit less brutalised than the previous two, but still quite, quite dead. “He’s tiring,” said Sherlock gleefully. “The fires are burning out. He’ll slip up soon.”

“Not soon enough for this man,” said John staring at the body.

“Oh, well, don’t waste too many tears for him. He transported slaves he had no right to. You saw the plane.”

John had. The converted DC-9 had a luxurious forward section. Comfortable chairs, full galley, entertainment systems. Through a hidden door in the rear was another matter. The jet had been stripped to the ribbing and fitted with manacles. It’s human cargo had not been released to relieve themselves for the long trans-atlantic flight. Urine, blood, vomit and worse, had been left smeared about. The smell was abominable.

“How many more bodies do you think there’ll be?” John asked.

“If I knew that,” said Sherlock. “It would be none.”

* * *

Eventually someone woke up in Washington and was able to cough up the name of their suspected murderer. Danny Fryling, caucasian, a very tough looking young prison guard with, as Sherlock had suggested, a very unattractive face. His nose had been obviously broken, more than once, his ears had the cauliflower appearance of a boxer’s. Flight lists concluded he’d flown in the day before. 

They raced as quickly as they could to his hotel room, a seedy, cheap bed-and-breakfast in the centre of London. The dark, grubby room showed little sign of use. A slept in bed. A suitcase left open on the floor. A few items of clothing still neatly folded inside.

A note tucked down at the bottom.

Lestrade popped the paper into a clear evidence bag, then let Sherlock read it. John watched him scan the sheet and hand it back. “That’s that then,” he said after a minute. He sighed as if disappointed. “I believe you can handle the rest from here, Lestrade. Call me if his corpse isn’t found, but I suspect that he’ll be with Mr. Andrews.”

John never did read the note, but the contents came out in the cab drive back to 221B. “He was approached two months ago to help select and transport of prisoners from the Seattle Jail to the airport for a flight to England. They were looking for non-violent offenders, addicts, vagrants, prostitutes, anyone who was not promptly bailed out and appeared to have no one who would raise a fuss for their loss. For his efforts he would be paid an extra thousand dollars per month and have the choicest shifts at the jail. The work was presented in a way that made it seem almost legal. It was extremely tempting for a young man looking forward to his marriage. 

“At first the only thing that prickled his conscience was that none of the potential slaves had been convicted of their crimes, and many were there for misdemeanours that would not warrant collaring. However they were also those who seemed likely to reoffend, and as a guard, he knew that many would end up in a collar after a few years anyway. Why not cut to the chase and earn some extra money?”

“Despite minor misgivings, Fryling played along for a month — long enough to be sent to England to meet his employers and see their operations. And that was their mistake. Fryling, while superficially callous and indifferent to his charges, nonetheless had a core of inner decency that they hadn’t counted on. Put plainly: He was horrified by the inhuman conditions that the slaves were kept in. He had been naive enough to think that selling homeless addicts to work in a factory in England might actually help give them a better life. He could not justify his actions once he saw his charges being left to languish in their own filth for days, then taken to a factory where they were chained to their machines, and kept crammed together without any regard to modesty or hygiene in dank, underground barracks. Every law concerning the treatment of slaves was flagrantly violated. It was impossible to believe that what he was doing was for the good of anyone but his employers. Fryling was utterly devastated. 

“Somehow Fryling was able to maintain an facade of not caring until he reached Washington. Then he confessed to his fiance. When the morning came he was still on the fence about reporting, but she was not, figuring that while some of the Police force were in cahoots, surely all of them weren’t. While he was at work, she stopped by the police department. Fryling never knew what she said to whom there, but soon after she left, she was shot on the street in a poorly investigated drive-by. And that’s when he began planning his revenge. He was known to these people, so when he contacted them asking for a meeting to help facilitate the transfer of slaves, they each were willing to make appointments with him. It’s possible they knew nothing about his fiance.”

Sherlock sighed. “He didn’t say why he chose to take the people out in England rather than those closer to home who he knew were directly involved with her death. Perhaps he considered the English to be ultimately more at fault. Perhaps he knew that any scandal involving English end of things would eventually lead back to Washington and take down his enemies there. Perhaps it was simply because the people here had never been his friends. We’ll never know.”

Sherlock’s phone buzzed and he looked at the text. “They’ve found Frying. He hanged himself after killing the head of the Sussex textile factory in his Hampstead home. Seven dead in twelve hours. Not a bad score. A bit anticlimactic, but overall not a bad days diversion.”

Diversion, thought John. Is that all Sherlock thought of it as? It was a fucking tragedy. “What will happen to the slaves?” asked John.

“I really have no idea,” said Sherlock. “And I honestly don’t care. Lestrade will sort it out.” Sherlock’s phone buzzed again.

Suddenly John remembered his plans for the day. He had to call Sarah! It was already past seven pm. Late for coffee, but perhaps not too late. And Sherlock seemed to be in a generous mood. 

Keeping his voice calm, he said, “I need to go to the store.” He’d take out the trash, retrieve the phone from behind the skip and maybe talk Sarah into the cafe inside Tescos. Not the most romantic first date, but she might find it quirky enough to be charming.

But Sherlock shook his head. “Not tonight, John. Do you really need a daily sojourn from me? I thought we got along rather well together. And I believe we’ve both done enough leg work for the day.”

“But we haven’t any food,” said John. 

“How about ordering take out and having it delivered. I’m rather in the mood for curry.”

John swallowed. Damn it. There was nothing for it but to order the curry and then pay for it when it was delivered. After cleaning up the boxes, John tried to take the sack of trash down to the skip. John’s heart thumped. At least he could give Sarah a call and tell her that he wasn’t blowing her off. 

But again Sherlock told him to stop. “Oh, John. Do relax. The rubbish can wait until tomorrow. You’ve earned an evening off. Rest. Cruise the internet, watch telly, write your blog. Yes, that last one. You finally have something a bit more interesting to blog about than soup and pedantic abolitionist rhetoric.”

Pedantic abolitionist rhetoric? Is that what Sherlock thought about it? How could Sherlock work on a case all day that so absolutely outlined the horrors of slavery and still come up with such a callous dismissal of abolitionism? 

Sherlock’s eyes met his and then he rolled them. “Oh, have I disappointed you, John? Was seeing the dreadful treatment of those slaves supposed to melt my heart to your cause? Is that what you thought I’d get out of this experience?”

“How can you feel nothing for them?” asked John. “How is it even human not to when you see people like that.”

Sherlock’s eyes grew dark. “I’m afraid you’ll discover that being heartless comes easy to me, John. I’m in a really good mood about you right now, John but I don’t suggest you push it. Write. Keep Mycroft off our back. And stop defying me, I’m actually trying to be nice.”

John did not call Sarah that night.


	6. Chapter 6

As best as John was able to tell (and with Sherlock, it wasn’t easy) being a “Master” didn’t sit comfortably with Sherlock. He vacillated between being ridiculously overbearing and treating John as though he were some favoured pet. It was as if a tug-of-war were going on in Sherlock’s mind, leaving him confused and off balance on how to act. There was a palpable awkwardness to all of this that set John’s teeth on edge and clearly embarrassed Sherlock. And yet, for all that, Sherlock had a fierce sense of pride that wouldn’t let him give John up.

Sometimes when John was working in the kitchen, or cleaning up after an experiment, he’d catch an achingly vulnerable look on Sherlock’s face. An unspeakable yearning. Sherlock had lived a terrifically lonely life before John had appeared on the scene. But this wasn’t something Sherlock was comfortable with sharing either. The moment he noticed John’s attention, on went a tougher facade.

John tried very hard not to feel sympathy for him, but was difficult not to grow emotionally attached to a man you tended all day. He’d grown so accustomed to memorising the man’s twitches and moods, finding some correlation between them and his behaviour. His entire day was filled with thoughts of Sherlock. His expressions, his voice, his wants and desires. Hell, even his _smell_ seemed to haunt John.

But he had to harden his belly to it. He had plan, and if all went off smoothly, he’d never see Sherlock again. He didn’t dare let himself think how much he’d actually miss him. Sherlock hadn’t been the only lonely one in this crazy flat.

* * *

Dr. Sarah Sawyer waved at John as he entered the little cafe half way between the green-grocers and the Baker Street flat. It was fast becoming _their_ place, if three rendezvous in as many days counted. 

His worries about blowing her off on Thursday were entirely unjustified. Sarah had been giddy that he’d called her at all. John’s twinge of guilt for having let her down magically transformed into a twinge of guilt for his plans to use her. Unless he could convince her to drop her practice and go into hiding with him in France, he wouldn’t be seeing her again, either.

John pushed that uncomfortable notion out of his mind. For now they were both together on a reasonably fine March afternoon. Two people, who were quickly falling into infatuation with each other.

Sarah had her hair pulled back today, showing off the tasteful loops in her ears. Her dress was feminine but demure, her make-up subtle and sweet. As John reached the table he could smell her perfume: something trendy but not overly expensive, maybe Chanel? _Sherlock would know,_ came an errant thought that he quickly pushed away. Sherlock wasn’t invited on this date. 

Sarah rose and gave him one of those awkward half-hugs that people give when they aren’t sure where they stand. John guessed that a quick peck on the cheek wouldn’t be amiss, and he was right. When they sat down, all awkwardness fled. Once again their conversation _clicked_ together. John knew precisely what Sarah was getting at when she talked about the grumpy pensioners, and she understood his hatred of the Chip and Pin machines.

When they’d reached the point where they were lingering over the last cold swallows of coffee, John finally pulled himself out of the spell and broached the real business at hand. 

“Say,” he said, “I don’t suppose you ever have an occasion to cross the channel, do you?”

“Only on vacation,” Sarah leaned forward, fingers laced together under her chin. “What about you?”

“I have friends there I go and see on an occasion.” Oh god, this was painful. “The reason I ask is that I’ve lost track of a friend down there, but you know my work doesn’t have conventional days off. I was hoping if you were planning a trip down there if you could hand deliver a letter.”

“A letter? Something wrong with the post?”

“Only my memory of his address. Anyway, there’s a lovely little cafe in Calais that is owned by his uncle, if you can give the letter to the uncle, then it will get to him and he can write me back.”

Sarah nodded, but John sensed it was an awkward nod. She sat straighter and her hands parted, one clasped her empty cup. Her eyes looked down. She was annoyed that their hitherto perfect date was spoiled by such an weird and unexpected imposition.

After a seconds hesitation, she seemed to find the excuse she was fishing for: “Well, I can’t say that I’ll be making any trips out there soon. We just lost our part time doctor and I’m having to cover his patients myself.” She quickly looked up and met his eye, feeling more confident. “But next time I do go, I will definitely deliver your letter.”

John nodded, and relaxed as the tension broke. It was a start. He hadn’t been too hopeful that she’d just leap on a train to play courier for a man she’d barely met, no matter how well they got on. But she hadn’t outright turned him down either. Which meant that maybe in a week or two she’d consider it.

Sarah segued into a conversation about all the different cities in France they’d each visited. John, who’d spent fifteen months in various French safe houses, won the contest soundly. He then went on to charm her by speaking tourist French in a low seductive voice. Never had “Pardon me, which way to the subway?” sounded so romantic.

John was startled when he felt his phone vibrate at his hip. Pulling it out he looked at it’s black face. Four-thirty? How could that much time have passed? The message from Sherlock was brusque and to the point:

> `COME HOME NOW.`

“I’ve got to go,” he said. “I wish I could stay longer, but…”

“Your master is calling you,” said Sarah with a laugh.

Blood drained from John’s face. Then he realised she meant it metaphorically. “I’m so sorry. I’ll try not to make running out on you a habit.” He looped the shopping around his wrist and stood up. His nerves jangled. What would he tell Sherlock about the time? That he’d had lost himself in a daydream? That shopping really was that slow? Perhaps he could pass it off as ordinary defiance. That, at least, would have the smack of truth to it.

“Oh, it’s your job, John, you can’t help it,” said Sarah, following him to the door. “Assistant Private Investigator — so cool!” 

John nodded and secretly thanked Sherlock for giving him a job description that explained his lack of reliable availability. John wanted to be as honest as he could with her about himself and frankly, he wouldn’t have much to talk about if he kept the above-board parts of his life secret. The only things he never mentioned was his terrorist activities and the fact that he was a slave. 

If only he’d met Sarah before he’d met Gabbeau and abolitionist underground. This was cruel.

“What are my chances I could lure you away from that with that part time position in my surgery?” Sarah asked with a flirtatious smile, as they walked out onto the pavement. “It might not be as exciting as hunting down murderers, but at least it would be a steady £65,000.”

John laughed ruefully. Oh god, there was no _way_. “I’m afraid not.” Better she think that it was due to his job being so exciting, than the job being so involuntary.

“It’s only three days a week,” she pressed. “And you could do your other investigations the rest of the time…”

“Oh, Sarah, I really can’t,” said John stopping in his tracks and putting a gentle hand on her shoulders. “My medical license expired years ago. I’d have to jump through half a dozen hoops before I could legally work in a surgery again. You’ll have the position filled before I could do that. And besides,” he slid his hands down until they met hers, then clasped them up to his chest. “It would be very awkward to be dating my boss.”

She laughed ruefully. “Yeah, there is that.” 

Then she leaned forward and they kissed. Every thought in John’s head promptly spilled out and there was nothing but the electric tingle of her warmth and smell and closeness. Oh, God, why couldn’t he have this? It was unfair. So damned unfair.

He broke off the kiss and separated from her as gently as he could. “I really do have to go. I’m sorry. I’ll call you tomorrow when I can.” If he stayed longer he was going to start tearing up and wouldn’t that lead to awkward questions.

He then took off at a run, his bag of vegetables swinging off his arm.

* * *

Sherlock had his arms crossed over his chest when he entered. John ducked his head down in an automatic gesture of contrite subservience. He knew what Sherlock was going to say even before the agony of it took him to the floor.

He stayed there, folded on his knees, hands splayed across the hardwood floor by the entry way. He stared unseeingly at the plastic sack with the lettuce poking out the top. Anything not to look at his Master. But even with his eyes averted he could feel Sherlock’s attention on him, searingly hot. Cataloguing every minute bit of him. The hair stood up on the back of John’s neck and he fancied he could feel the collar scars throb.

Out of the corner of John’s eye, he saw Sherlock kneeling down and grasping the shopping bag. He raised his hand to let it slip off. Sherlock stood again. There was a rustling of plastic. Then the slow clopping sounds of Sherlock’s shoes as he walked to the kitchen. John just stayed where he was. Waiting for the inevitable other shoe to drop.

“Was the selection Waitrose so difficult to choose from,” Sherlock said in cold, scathing voice, “That it would take a full two and a half hours of your time to pick out eight vegetables? Was the line for the cashier extraordinarily long?”

John flinched at the sarcasm. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Or could it be,” said Sherlock, pacing closer, “That you weren’t shopping all that time after all?”

_Oh god, he knows…_

There was a long pause and John sweated. Had any of Sarah’s make up transferred onto his face? Did he smell her perfume? Christ, Sherlock had to know. He had to know everything.

“Could it be that you were shirking?”

John fought to keep his breathing steady. That wasn’t the conclusion he was expecting Sherlock to come to. Perhaps he hadn’t figured it out after all. There was still hope that the clandestine date and the deeper reasons behind the date were still secret.

“Could it be perhaps that you find my company so unpleasant you were seeking to extend your liberty as long as possible?”

Oh god, yes. Let him think it was that. John nearly trembled with relief.

“I’m sorry. I just needed some time to myself.” His voice came out a whisper.

Sherlock took a deep breath in. John stared at the flaking varnish on the floorboards and waited for the breath to come out. Finally it did. 

“Look at me,” Sherlock said, like the low rumble of an earthquake.

John forced himself to look up. His neck muscles were so stiff with tension that it was hard to do even that simple task. Sherlock was pale with anger and something that if John didn’t know better was abject terror. Then the collar triggered and the feeling of bliss and fear warred in his mind so disconcertingly that John looked away out of sheer self-defence.

“Look at me!” Sherlock repeated sharper, John met his eye and held it steady through the pulse of reward and back out the other side.

Sherlock waited for the collar to finish before continuing. “Consider any good will you might have earned from the last case gone.”

John nodded.

“It comes to my attention that I’ve given your leash too much slack. You are taking liberties you shouldn’t. You want _free time_ ,” he said mockingly, as if the concept were absurd. “Time to relax with a coffee and pretend that you are a free man whose destiny is his own to make.”

John struggled not to duck his head again.

“You. Are. Not. A. Free. Man.” Sherlock emphasised each word with a stamp of his foot. “Do you understand, John? You are a _slave_! I don’t care how much you think it’s unfair. It is what you are and you need to accept it. You exist to serve _me,_ not yourself. You should be thinking of _my_ needs, not your own. You are mine. Body. Mind. Everything, John. Mine. And what you do and where you go and what freedoms you have are entirely at _my_ say so.”

John couldn’t stop the tremble that crept through his body. He was glad he was still kneeling. He didn’t think he could stand.

“I did not give you permission to spend two hours at a coffee shop, pretending to be your own person.”

John nodded. At least he didn’t know about Sarah. At least his plans were still intact. Set back a bit maybe but intact.

“Eyes up!” Sherlock ordered, when John let them drift again. With enormous effort, John met Sherlock’s eyes again. Oh god, there was rage there. There was fury. It made John squirm to see such anger and at the same time feel so good.

“I have to punish you,” said Sherlock. “Simply having your collar shock you isn’t enough. This is a grave offence.”

John sniffed in a breath, remembering how much the crop had hurt.

“I think that the punishment should fit the crime,” said Sherlock. “Natural consequences work much better than one size fits all solutions. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, Master,” said John automatically, while his belly turned to ice. Not the crop then. But what? With a mind as creative as Sherlocks, it could be anything.

“It’s time to pull the tether in tight, John. You don’t deserve your own room. And I want my laboratory back the way it used to be, not all crammed up so you can fit the soft bed I allowed you to buy.”

John felt both relief and dread. His room — his retreat. “Where will I sleep?”

“On the floor in my room, at the foot of my bed,” said Sherlock. “So that I can call you in the night and you will be handily at my side. There is a throw rug you can lie on. And I will allow you a pillow and a blanket for warmth. But that is all. From here on out, unless otherwise ordered, you will stay in whatever room I’m in, for both my convenience and to keep you out of mischief.”

John breathed deeply. “What of your privacy, Master,” he felt compelled to ask. Sherlock was an intensely private man at times, retreating to his own room for hours on end. This was as much a punishment of him as it was of John.

“What privacy do I need with you,” asked Sherlock, as if the matter were unimportant. “Why should I care how you see me? You are furniture, John. Should I wish to be alone, I shall simply order you to place yourself in a corner and be still — the way I’d put an chair. And for now until I have another case, we shall go out together. I don’t trust you out of my sight.”

John nodded. Shit. Sarah. “I’ll be less useful to you, Sir.”

“That may be true,” said Sherlock, the freeze coming out of his voice a bit. “But you won’t be any use at all to me if Mycroft takes you away. And trust me, if you remain this wilful, he will take you back and break you himself.” Sherlock’s hand came down and touched John’s head gently once, and then with a sharp rap of the knuckles. “Up. And get to work. I want the laboratory to be as you found it by bed time.”

* * *

Sherlock sat in a chair in the corner of the attic and supervised John’s work. Bit by bit the room went back to the way it had been when John had taken it over. He allowed John to keep a quarter of the cupboard for his clothes, but only because he didn’t want John cluttering up his own wardrobe with it. When John finished, sweaty, dusty, and aching from the effort, Sherlock ordered him downstairs to wash up in the sink and begin on dinner.

Sherlock was true to his word about keeping John close. When he went into his bedroom to fetch a book, John had to stop washing dishes to go in with him. When he went to the toilet, to John’s utter horror, he brought him in then too, and had him face the door while he did his business.

“You better use it yourself,” Sherlock mentioned casually while he washed his hands, the implication being that Sherlock might not give John permission to go later on. Peeing in front of Sherlock was probably the most embarrassing thing John had ever done. He almost couldn’t manage it. By the time he washed up, he was deeply red in the face. Sherlock didn’t seem the least bit perturbed, which didn’t give John much hope for the future.

“You should get used to it,” said Sherlock as they walked back to the living room. “You were a doctor once — and in the army. You should be inured to things like nudity or body functions. Or is it easier to have others be vulnerable and naked in front of you rather than the other way around?”

“I gave my patients as much privacy as I could. Sir,” said John belatedly.

“Consider me your doctor then,” said Sherlock. “And do as I prescribe. If I consider it dangerous to leave you on your own even for a second right now, then your privacy, and mine, will have to go. Later I might reconsider.”

John said nothing. There was nothing to say. He sat down and wrote out his 100 words. They were laborious and difficult. In the end what he wrote made no sense at all.

* * *

That night John dreamed again. He was taking Sarah for a boat ride down the Thames. He paddled with no effort at all, feeling the joy of freedom and watching the banks on either side move terribly fast. Even though they had no provisions packed, he planned on paddling all the way down the river to the ocean, and then off to France. They’d be free there. The wires in his head would be defused and no one would ever catch him again.

Then suddenly to either side came a much larger steam boat. The huge bows pinched in towards him, cutting off his little boat. The water around suddenly pocked as a hail of bullets drew a line around him. Sarah screamed and curled in a ball, her hands over her head. John looked one way, then another, then knew he was caught and raised his arms.

He could see Mycroft standing up on the prow of the ship to his right. When he looked to his left, there was Sherlock, mirroring his brother. He understood he had to choose. Go with Mycroft and face unknown horrors in the hold of his massive battleship. Or go with Sherlock and deal with the anger that played across his face.

It was no choice. He went with Sherlock. And suddenly he was down below decks in Sherlock’s bedroom. The throw rug was on the floor where he knew he’d be expected to sleep. He was so exhausted and he wanted to lie down and sleep, but he had to wait for Sherlock’s orders.

For some reason, Sarah was still in the room. Part of John felt terror that Sherlock knew she existed, but then it seemed that Sherlock had always known she existed. Yes, of course! Sarah was a slave, too, like himself. They’d been escaping together. They’d been caught and now Sherlock had brought them home.

 _Lie down,_ Sherlock ordered. He sat at the end of the bed and watched as the two of them lay on the floor by his feet. Like dogs, John thought. Like possessions. He lay down and the pleasure from his collar rewarded him so nicely.

He wasn’t sure how it happened but it seemed that he was naked now and Sarah as well. Sherlock was watching on with interest as they made love to each other. This was John’s duty. His job. His punishment. He wasn’t sure it was all muddled. Part of him flinched in embarrassment at having sex in front of his Master, but the rest revelled in it. Sherlock’s voice filled John’s ears with orders for him to do ever more perverted things to her body. While John complied the collar fed him a steady stream of rewards making it all even better, more seductive.

And then it seemed that Sarah wasn’t really a person at all, but rather some sort of blow up doll or mannequin made of rubber that he was lying on and pushing himself into. John felt a surge of shame go through him, that he was degrading himself on this thing — this toy. All the while Sherlock’s hand stroked his hair and urged him to rut the thing harder. More.

John couldn’t resist. He couldn’t stop himself, not with his own needs and the collar both beating at him. He couldn’t stop Sherlock from holding him from behind and filling his mind with seductive orders. He couldn’t stop himself from arching back against the hard warmth of that masculine body and longing for more. More touching. More force. More orders. _Take me and leave nothing left._

He was giving in. And he knew the moment he did that every trace of integrity he ever had would be lost entirely.

* * *

John woke, curled in a tight ball on the hard floor by the foot of Sherlock’s bed. Cold had crept up through the thin carpeting. The blanket didn’t seem warm enough. But there was no mistaking the raging hard on between his thighs. He remembered the dream far too well. The seductiveness and the shame of it. In the dark he could hear Sherlock’s breathing, slow and steady in an otherwise silent room.

God help him, he’d nearly had a wet dream about Sherlock fucking him. And ordering him. Though now that he thought back on it, the collar in his dream didn’t really give him the same feeling it did in reality. Dream Sherlock hadn’t been able to actually trigger it. Still, he’d dreamed of being taken equally by his Master and his collar, and it had been one of the most intensely sexual dreams he’d ever had.

What did it mean? Was he really being seduced? Did part of him actually _like_ being treated like this? Was he starting to get off on slavery? God what an awful thought. And yet, even awake, it was hard not to grab his own cock and continue the fantasy to it’s conclusion. If he’d been up in the attic rather than Sherlock’s bedroom, he’d have done that.

Maybe that’s all it was — built up sexual tension. It had been several days since he’d wanked. There just hadn’t been any time for it, with trying to arrange meetings with Sarah around Sherlock’s tricky schedule. It could just be as simple as needing release and his mind manipulating the circumstances of his life to allow it. That made John feel a bit better. He sighed and unballed himself. 

“Oh, do go back to sleep,” muttered Sherlock suddenly, from above him. “Or I’ll drug your tea tomorrow night so you won’t squirm so much.”

John stayed still. No definitely not going to whack off now — or God, when would he ever get to, with Sherlock hovering about. He closed his eyes and despite the unfulfilled tension, he slept again. This time he didn’t remember his dreams.

* * *

The epiphany came on the morning of the second day of John’s punishment. Sherlock got up just before six as usual, and John, stiff and aching from a poor night’s sleep almost didn’t keep up with him as he strode across the hall to the flat’s toilet. Perhaps Sherlock was a bit overtired himself because he forgot to tell John to look at the wall before whipping himself out and emptying his bladder. John, feeling groggy and surly, wasn’t in the mood to correct the oversight. 

So he stood and stared. He might have grinned a bit, because watching the his “master” the “great genius” scratching his arse and filling the pot made him seem a lot less of an implacable god and more of an ordinary human being. But for a collar, John thought, we would be the same.

Mid-piss, Sherlock happened to turn his head slightly and realised that John was faced the wrong direction. John saw a ripple of tension snake its way over Sherlock’s body, making his arm shake and his back straighten. Sherlock’s eyes widened and his hand pinched down harder on the head of his cock, cutting off the flow. His nostrils flared as he breathed in quickly. And then it was gone, Sherlock’s face was a blank mask, he quite deliberately turned away.

“Curiosity appeased?” he asked dryly. “I’m sure you’ve seen plenty of cocks before.” He then let out the last dribbling spurts with a stiffness in his posture that suggested he was being valiantly defiant.

Actually, John could barely see Sherlock’s limp member at all. Between his hand and the folds of his clothes, Sherlock’s modesty was nearly entirely preserved. John considered mentioning this but then he realised something important: Sherlock was _miserably_ body shy. 

And wouldn’t you know it, suddenly Sherlock reminded John of the sad blighters who used to wait until everyone was finished and dressing before sneaking into the showers after sport. John fought to keep a snicker back.

As humiliated as John had been peeing in front of Sherlock yesterday, it wasn’t like he’d never been in situations where he’d been naked in front of others before. And most of them hadn’t been terrible experiences at all. John had shared showers with his fellow rugby players, hell, he’d taken dumps in front of his fellows in the army. And in between, he’d gone skinny dipping with friends and even poked his naked bum out of a car window once on his drunken way back from the championship game against Brighton. The trick was to decide that your body was a bloody gift to mankind and that everyone one around was _privileged_ to get a glimpse of it. Either that or you didn’t give a flying fuck. John waffled between the two approaches. Much as he wasn’t a fan of exposing himself to Sherlock, he’d had a fair degree of experiences coping with bodily exposure. And now that John was over the shock of being _ordered_ to do it, he could probably channel the carefree attitude of his youth. 

But Sherlock had had none of that. The man didn’t even use public urinals. 

A slow smile crept across John’s face. He had _power_ in this. If the goal was to wear John down through embarrassment, Sherlock had finally made a real tactical mistake.

So instead admitting he hadn’t seen much of anything, John said, “I don’t know, you could give a better show. You a grower or a shower?” This was pure locker room cheek. He knew he was going to pay for it, but damn if it didn’t feel good.

Sherlock’s reaction was instant. John watched as he tried to get control over his involuntary reactions, but in the end he blushed, then realising that he was blushing made him blush deeper. “That’s a dangerous question to ask, considering.”

“Considering what?” said John, feeling nearly drunk on the power he suddenly realised had. “Go on, take the rest off. Don’t worry about me. I’m just a piece of furniture, remember? Who cares what a chair sees. Unless that is, you are afraid I’ll laugh.”

Sherlock just stared as if he couldn’t believe what was coming out of John’s mouth. And to be honest, John was nearly as surprised himself. More over he was surprised he was getting away with it. It was as if Sherlock had momentarily forgotten how easy it was to punish John. There he stood at a complete loss for what to do, three long seconds. John could practically see Sherlock contemplating his options: Did he take off his clothes and prove his own point that he didn’t care (when in fact he did) or did he turn John around and have him face the door, and admit his shame. 

John had just the time to crow to himself that this most simple school yard bullying was actually working when Sherlock snapped out of his shock. “John, HEEL!”

For a moment, there was nothing but pain. But the moment came and went and it wasn’t quite as awful as John had expected it to be. 

When he came back to himself, Sherlock’s face was furious, but John wasn’t afraid anymore. He’d actually found a chink in Sherlock’s armour. An odd, inexplicable, yet very exploitable shyness. John could hurt him. John had power — more power than Sherlock had! After all, what could Sherlock do that he hadn’t already done? What could he take away? John had already been whipped. He’d already been humiliated. He’d already been stripped of everything. Sherlock was only hurting _himself_ at this point. This crazy punishment, this “tightening the leash” as he’d termed it was only punishing _Sherlock_.

And god if that wasn’t freeing. 

John made the mistake of grinned up at Sherlock triumphantly as soon as the pain faded. Sherlock’s face went white. John who had thought he’d seen Sherlock angry before was utterly taken aback by the deadly fury on his face now. It was like a tsunami rising up on the horizon, pausing at the shore, and then crashing down. 

“Heel, John, Heel, John, Heel, John….” Over and over.

John regretted everything by the second iteration, by the fourth he was too far gone to do even that. Words came out of his mouth but they were garbled with his sobs and screams to make sense. When Sherlock paused long enough for breath, John begged him to stop. And when, after a few more “heel”s, he did stop, all John could do for several minutes was grovel and apologise. He was curled on the floor by Sherlock’s feet, shaking like a leaf. Sherlock waited, unmoving until John’s babbling had stopped and he’d caught his breath. And when at last John’s shuddering died down, a deep silence filled the room.

Slowly, John ventured to look up at Sherlock. His face was still pale but the fury was gone and in it’s place was an odd disgust, but John wasn’t sure if it were aimed at him, or if Sherlock was levelling it at himself.

Sherlock stared at him a bit longer. Then to John’s surprise, he stripped for his shower and got in. “You are just furniture,” he said tightly. “Look or don’t, I don’t care.”

* * *

John had plenty of time to think while Sherlock took the world’s longest shower. The steam had long settled and he could tell that the water had gone beyond tepid to fully cold minutes before Sherlock shut it off. John did much the same: cooling from hot anger to cold reasoning. And in the wake of his fury, John felt oddly ashamed of having goaded Sherlock, even though he was the one who’d been hurt.

He’d never been a bully before. He’d argued passionately, he’d tried to change people’s minds when he thought they were wrong, but he’d never teased in a mean way or tried to make someone feel ashamed of their own weaknesses. He didn’t much like those who did. 

He tried to justify his behaviour in his mind with the fact that this was war and Sherlock was the enemy. But it was hard to see Sherlock as the enemy. Not when he’d been through so much with the man. Not when he knew how the man took his tea, and what his face looked like when a new case came in. Not when he’d heard those infrequent words of praise that he’d _never_ heard Sherlock give anyone else.

Not when he knew that Sherlock was going this far out of his comfort zone to try to discipline John. Really, what master would do this tethering thing? Most would simply have lashed John with “heel” from the start. Clearly that was what Mycroft was expecting Sherlock to do.

Something had changed between them. John didn’t know if this was what stockholm syndrome felt like, but there was a bond between them now. There was something odd and disturbingly like love.

That wasn’t the only change. The revelation still held. John was just not as bothered by lack of privacy as Sherlock was. It was so obvious now that he was looking at it. He could see the irritation that Sherlock felt every time he turned and found John in his face. And yet Sherlock couldn’t say anything about it, since John was only following his orders. Sherlock paced like a caged animal while John cooked, wanting dearly to go up to his lab, but knowing if he did that his dinner would either be left half cooked or become a fire hazard. Last night when John had slowly put the lab back to it’s former place, Sherlock had been all but crawling out of his skin to get up and do something other than watch.

John tested his theory:

“Would you like me to scrub the shower? It looks a bit dingy,” asked John, not because he really wanted to take on the chore, but because it would have forced Sherlock to stand around in the tiny room being bored while he did it. 

“Dear god, no,” Sherlock replied, with a shudder. “Find something to do in this room.” He watched the telly with his knees folded to his chin. His eyes kept flicking to the window as if he were contemplating escape. 

“I could hoover,” suggested John, after a minute.

“Alright! Hoover!” Sherlock turned up the sound on the telly to compensate. 

John suppressed a grin, because the punishment of that morning was too raw to risk it again. Still he couldn’t help but feeling oddly cheerful. He’d found a way to tweak Sherlock’s nose without being punished and without it going so far as to make Sherlock genuinely uncomfortable the way he had with his remarks that morning. It felt positively empowering. The best part of it was that he knew it wouldn’t last.

Sherlock was going to break before he did, John was certain of it. He’d break and end this rule of being in the same room together. And they would go back to normal, or what John had begun to feel was normal. John just had to be patient.

* * *

There must have been a crack in Sherlock’s window that allowed a cold air to seep in and settle across the floor. No matter how tightly John balled himself against it, he just couldn’t get warm enough to fully sleep. He’d wedged himself against the bed frame and wall to help build a little triangle of warmth that wouldn’t be swept away by the draft. Though he tried to be quiet about it, every movement made the floor boards creak, and judging by the soft cursing, woke Sherlock.

Finally, Sherlock sat up and snapped: “That’s it. Up you go, in the bed.”

The old John of two days ago would have been mortified. Now he couldn’t give a rats arse. He was exhausted and aching from cold. The bed felt soft and inviting and having another body heating it up sounded just fine. Sherlock stood so that John could crawl in and take the side against the wall. He didn’t even need the collar rewarding him: The bed was already so deliciously warm and soft that his muscles relaxed and out he went. If anything untoward happened in the night John wasn’t aware of it because his next memory was Sherlock shaking him awake so he could go have his morning slash.

John got up and lurched after him like a zombie. This morning there were no revelations, just John leaning against the wall and trying to catch a few more winks while Sherlock went through his normal routine, looking only the slightest bit haggard from two days of less than optimal sleep. 

Something’s going to break soon, John thought to himself vaguely. We can’t go on like this. But he was no longer sure which of them it would be to fold first.

* * *

Neither of them remembered it was Wednesday until Mycroft knocked at the door promptly at 9. John opened the door automatically, half expecting it to be Mrs. Hudson and jumped to full wakefulness when the impeccably dressed monster walked jauntily right in.

Mycroft scanned John, then Sherlock, then his face settled into a frown. “No.” He pronounced with utter finality.

“No what?” asked Sherlock, dully from the sofa.

“Sherlock,” said Mycroft, resting his umbrella next to a chair and crossing his arms. “Whatever it is the two of you are up to, it’s not good. You look like you’ve barely slept in two days and John is practically stumbling over his own feet. How is he to see to your health if you allow him to neglect his own?”

“Temporary,” said Sherlock with a wave of his hand. “I’ve gone without sleep longer.”

“And I repeat myself: ‘no’.” Mycroft turned to John. “If you would go up to your room John, I wish to talk to Sherlock in private.”

John stiffened and looked at Sherlock. If he followed Mycroft’s orders he’d be in a different room from Sherlock. 

“John go make me some tea,” said Sherlock wearily. John went to the edge of the living room and paused. Sherlock considered the kitchen to be a separate room, even if there were no walls between the two areas. Sherlock realised the problem and got up, and though he tried to make it seem as if it were his own idea all along, Mycroft’s sharp eyes caught the interplay between them and his face went grim.

“Spill it,” he said sharply. “What on earth is going on. Why must John be so close to you.” He turned to John. “Tell me.”

John froze. He turned from Sherlock to Mycroft. Obviously, Sherlock wanted this punishment held secret or he’d have told Mycroft. Just as obviously Mycroft wasn’t going to let it go until he knew. “I’ll remind you, Sherlock, that I’m John’s _primary_ owner. As such I demand to know what his orders are. If you are doing something that will put my experiment at risk, I need to know.” Sherlock mouth tightened. Mycroft turned again to John. “Well?”

“I was late coming back with the groceries,” said John. “I’m being punished.”

“How.” The word was like a branch being snapped.

“I must be in the same room as Sherlock at all times. I’m not to be allowed any privacy until he’s satisfied that I’ve learned my lesson.”

“What lesson is that?”

“That I’m not my own man. That I belong to him. Like a piece of furniture.”

Mycroft thought a bit. “I see.” He lifted his head. “No. I forbid it. This punishment ends right now.”

“Why?” said Sherlock. “It’s working. You wanted me to push him past his comfort zone, and I have.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Sherlock, my dear. John not your toddler, he’s your slave. It’s his duty to serve you, not yours to serve him. And he’s much tougher than you are giving him credit for. This method of discipline is all wrong!”

“What does it matter to you what methods I use for discipline — so long as they work.”

“That’s where you are wrong, it _does_ matter what you use!” Mycroft turned his patronising glower back towards Sherlock. “No don’t glare at me like that, I see what you are trying to do. You think if you watch him closely enough you can nip his defiance in the bud, and bring his misbehaviour to extinction this way. And knowing you, you probably can, given enough time.”

“Your problem then?”

“Well that’s very fine for you, Sherlock, but if you are able to break him by these means _he’ll be worthless to me._ John isn’t just your slave and he’s not just mine, either. He’s an example of what all slaves in the future can become with this new technology. There are precious few people in the world who would be willing to devote this kind of energy to break a slave. For heaven’s sake, Sherlock, take the easy route for once. Let the collar do its work!”

Sherlock’s posture stiffened, but he said nothing.

“I told you from the start that my experiment takes precedence over everything. Now, _John_ ,” said Mycroft harsher. “Go upstairs to your room immediately. Forget the tea. I need to talk to Sherlock alone.”

Sherlock nodded.

John didn’t hesitate this time. He headed up the stairs quickly. As he entered the lab he felt the reward for his good behaviour wash over him. When that was done, he sat down in the chair by the door, with every intention of being good and staying out of the way for the duration of Mycroft’s visit. The man spooked him.

But then so did having people talk about him behind his back. As the seconds wore on the weirdness of being suddenly alone after nearly three days of continuous togetherness, combined with the knowledge of his future being discussed behind his back, led to a kind of an itchy feeling that wouldn’t let John settle down. John would have liked to have believed that it was his strength of character that lead him to defy Mycroft, but his weakness took more of the credit.

Quietly, quietly, he crept through the door, avoiding the creakiest floorboards. He reached the top of the stairs, but didn’t dare go farther. 

“I’m not in love with him,” Sherlock denied, his voice was faint.

“He is with you constantly. It’s only natural that you’d develop some sort of fondness. Many masters do with their personal slaves. And really, why else would you insist on coddling him so. You don’t want him to be hurt.”

Sherlock scoffed, “Yes, that would be why I whipped him.”

“You barely knew him when you did that. Sherlock, I’m not against you showing some affection to him — provided he earns it.” Mycroft’s voice lowered, and John could only barely catch the words, “If you are afraid I plan on removing him, I won’t. At least not permanently. Current exhaustion aside, he’s done wonders for you. You’ve put on two pounds in the last few weeks and your flat looks and smells much better. And it’s good to see you expanding your interest beyond your extremely narrow area of expertise. 

“But I’m starting to think that, rather than having you fight your obviously deep emotional commitment to him, perhaps I should take it on myself to perform some of the more … potentially problematic parts of his training. I can be the ‘villain’, at least until such time as John has become used to the the treatment.”

“No,” said Sherlock sharply. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it. Leave him alone.”

“Hmm,” said Mycroft. “We’ll see.”


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock didn’t immediately come up and fetch John after Mycroft left. John had settled into one of the chairs and had fallen asleep with his head on lab table while waiting for him to come back. He must have really needed his sleep because when his eyes opened again the sun was no longer shining through the window, and John realised it had been several hours.

He stood up and stretched and wondered how long Sherlock was planning on keeping him in the room. But almost as soon as he started walking around, Sherlock was at the door. “Good, you’ve woken up. I checked on you earlier but you were asleep. I have a list of orders for you.”

John took a deep breath and nodded, reaching his hand out.

“Wait,” said Sherlock. “I’ll give this list to you as a reminder, but first I must order you verbally, otherwise, the collar doesn’t work properly.”

John nodded again. The list turned out to be very ordinary. Groceries, laundry, and various tidying chores including scrubbing the shower which John had suggested earlier. He stuffed the paper in his pocket, but didn’t think he’d have to actually refer to it.

“You can do them in any order that you wish,” said Sherlock, tying his scarf around his neck. “I have to go. I’ll be back around seven, in plenty of time for you to make us some dinner. Until then…” Sherlock stopped and suddenly looked quite earnest. “Please, John. I’m begging you. Don’t let the last few days have been in vain.” 

He didn’t wait for a response. Instead he turned and swept out of the room and down the stairs. John watched from the living room window as he hailed down a cab and got in. The black car pulled away from the curb around the next corner, and Sherlock was gone.

* * *

For the first time in three days, John was free to do anything he wanted. John waited nearly ten minutes before going down to the skip and retrieving his phone.

He dialled the number and smiled. “Hi, Sarah.”

“Hi, John?” said Sarah. “Listen can I call you back in a couple of minutes? I need to — um, the loo. Sorry. TMI.” She let out a nervous laugh.

John nodded, then aware she couldn’t see the gesture he added, “Sure, sure!” He was feeling nervous, too. Hearing her voice again drove home just how hard this was going to be. 

“Just a couple minutes,” she promised and then she hung up.

John gave the skip a tap with the heel of his hand. He needed to talk to her, but what was he going to say? _I’m sorry, Sarah, but we need to stop seeing each other? It’s too dangerous for both of us right now. You see my boss hasn’t given me permission to have an outside relationship, and yes he can do that because he’s not so much my boss as, well, actually he’s my master —_ no. No, no way. Sarah couldn’t learn about his slave status. She wasn’t ready to hear it yet. Damn it, what was he doing. 

Still, somehow he needed to cool what they had down, confine it back to laundry days, where he could hide their association with that chore. But what could he say that would convince her to go along with that? Everything that came to mind made him feel like an utter heel.

The phone in his hand rang. He swiftly answered it. “Sarah?”

“Hi, John,” she said. “Listen, I’m going to go do my laundry in half an hour, would you like to meet there? Also, also, remember how you asked me to deliver a letter for you?”

John stiffened, “Yes.”

“Well, turns out I can do it, but you need to write it now. I’m going to France tonight.” She definitely sounded off.

“What’s going on Sarah,” John asked. “Why are you going to France?”

“It’s nothing — it’s a funeral, in Calais.” she said, tightly. “It’s been a hell of a — hell of a day, John. I’ll tell you over laundry. I have to go, John, see you in half an hour.”

John tucked the phone in his pocket and dashed back up to the flat. He felt a sudden rush of excitement that pushed away every other consideration. _She was going to deliver the letter_. Depaul would see that it was passed on to Gabbeau. They knew all about the collar. They probably were already researching options on how to disable or jam the GPS. With hope it would only be a matter of days after the letter before someone from the organisation bumped into him on the street and ferried him away to a safe house. They wouldn’t be able to remove the collar from his brain, but as long as he never crossed paths with Sherlock or Mycroft again, it wouldn’t matter. It wasn’t as if the collar were visible.

And that would solve the problem of Sarah as well. Once that letter was off, he wouldn’t need her anymore. And the faster he put her behind him the better, for both their sakes. He was too old to be playing Romeo, and as fantastic (oh God, it really had been wonderful) as their time had been together it was doomed from the start. One day, hopefully soon, when Slavery had been properly abolished, he’d look her up and maybe they’d be able to recapture a bit of what they had here.

He pressed his lips together suppressing a surge of nausea. It was very likely this would be the last time he saw Sarah for a long time, perhaps forever. To her, it would seem like he’d dropped off the map. Maybe she’d even try to look him up — though he hoped for her sake that she didn’t. Mycroft would seize her the instant she tried. 

The thought of Sarah under Mycroft’s scrutiny horrified John. How long would she be able to hold up before she spilled everything about the letter? Perhaps he could give her a call later to tell her who he was and what he’d done, but no that would be just as bed. She’d feel used and rightfully angry that he’d put her in danger. 

“Bugger,” muttered John, feeling sick and helpless. No matter which way he went, Sarah was going to be hurt and he hated that, but there really was no way around it. He _was_ using her shamefully, but what alternative did he have? 

This was war. Sometimes in war civilians got hurt.

* * *

Letter, letter. After the raid in Oregon, Depaul wasn’t going to accept anything from Sarah’s hand without solid evidence that it came from him and everything was on the up and up.

He used a pen to scrawl out the gist of his situation. There wasn’t much time to go into proper detail: Just a quick note of introduction for Sarah, so they’d know who she was and how much she knew (nothing). He then explained GPS on his collar, his address and living arrangements, the number to his secret mobile. He warned about Sherlock and Mycroft. Their talent for following clues was formidable and the Cause needed to know before they lost more cells to the two. 

John had no doubt that Sherlock would join Mycroft in trying to find him again, but he knew their methods well enough that he felt reasonably sure he could counter them. Or so he told himself, because thinking anything else would be to give up before he’d even given it a try. 

He wasn’t a quitter.

On a separate piece of paper he gave instructions to Sarah on how to find Depaul, what he looked like, how to introduce herself. John bit his lip and wished he’d planned for a contingency like this ahead of time. In the end there really was only so much he could do. He’d thrown out his pitch, the rest was in someone else’s hand.

Folding the note, he glanced at the clock. Twenty-five minutes had passed and he needed to get a move on if he wasn’t to be late.

He ran about the flat, piling together the laundry into its duffle, then launched himself down the steps. This time he hurried straight to the laundrette, bypassing the dry cleaners this once. He may be giving Sarah up as a lost cause, but that didn’t mean he didn’t selfishly want to enjoy every moment of her company he could get. Sherlock would doubtless berate him on his irrationality if he knew. But right now John didn’t care about what Sherlock’s opinions were.

Sarah was already there when he arrived, her laundry sack at her side, just sitting in one of the moulded plastic chairs. She looked up when he entered, then stood a little stiffly.

“Hi, John,” she said, obviously steeling herself. “You have that letter for me to deliver?”

Surprised, John reached into his pocket and gave her the envelope. “I’ve written instructions on how to find the shop,” he reached in again and handed her a second folded sheet. “Listen, thank you so much, Sarah. This is really a wonderful thing you are doing. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

Sarah barely glanced at what he gave her before putting the letter and instructions in her black handbag. When she looked up, she tried to smile but couldn’t manage it. She looked horrid: pale, her make up had been smudged then hastily cleaned and reapplied. Crying, said Sherlock’s training. It was obvious the day had put her through the wringer.

“What’s wrong?” John said, gently. “Is it the funeral? Were you close to the person?”

Sarah shook her head. “Not really.” She managed a tiny contrite smile. “He was a — patient. I. It was unexpected. I thought I knew, I mean, I _did_ know there was something wrong but I didn’t, didn’t make the right diagnosis. And then this morning I found out…” she waved her hands open.

“That’s terrible, Sarah. I know we all lose patients, but some hurt a lot more than others. Was he young?” John tried to gather her into a hug, but she stiffened and pulled away, flashing a shamed and uncomfortable smile.

“Yeah, he was a — he seemed to be a very nice guy. And I got it all wrong. I made a huge mistake. And now because of this I’m worried about legal action. And the surgery. All my plans could get messed up.” 

She put her hand over her face and smudged her mascara, her eyes fixed on a spot to John’s side. “I’m sorry, John. I really am. I can’t tell you. I wish so much that I could stay and talk and have it be like before. But I’d rather not start to cry in a public place.” She grabbed her laundry sack and her handbag and started walking towards the door. “I have to go, now.”

John followed her. “Sarah, wait,” he said. He had to say goodbye. This was his last chance.

But she just sped up her steps, walking up to a black car and getting inside.

The car wasn’t a cab.

He sensed before he felt the hands grabbing him from behind and he almost managed to dodge them. Whipping around he landed his laundry duffle against the side of one of the black clad men. His next instinct was to run wildly. Breaking momentarily free of their grip, he made a mad dash towards the nearest alley.

“Heel, John!”

John stumbled and dropped to his hands and knees on the pavement, awash in sudden agony.

“Really, John,” came a quiet voice, just above him. “Must you create a scene here?”

Tearfully, John glanced up and around. There were people all around the street watching what was happening. One of Mycroft’s minions flashed a badge, and abruptly the crowd seemed to scurry away. No one wanted the eye of the Imperialist Guard on them. That was a level of trouble too much for the casually curious. 

Another minion pressed John’s shoulder, forcing him the rest of the way to the ground. John felt hands frisking him down. The secret mobile was found and removed from his pocket. He was yanked to his feet in time to see another minion grabbing his laundry bag out of the gutter.

Mycroft grabbed John’s elbow and pushed him the other direction down the street, away from the car that Sarah had gotten into and to another sleeker and more expensive looking limo. “Come along,” he said mildly. “In you go, John and mind your head.”

John ducked and slid onto the seats. It was only the reward from the collar that kept him from vomiting.

Sarah was gone. She was gone and not to Calais. 

The letter. Oh god, that damn letter that she _told_ him to write. He’d handed to her the means to which Mycroft could infiltrate the French chapter. She had sold him out, and sold out Depaul and possibly even Gabbeau with him. Mycroft had been hoping John would lead him to them for weeks, and now he had. He’d _trusted_ her, and she’d handed it all away.

It was gone. All his carefully made plans. All his hopes. He’d pinned everything on being able to contact the resistance and now… now even if he did manage to contact them again they would have nothing to do with him. Why should they, he was a liability of the first order — a man with a collar that couldn’t be removed. A man who’d unwittingly betrayed them. A man owned by the two most persistent, perceptive, powerful men in all the Crown Territories. What now? What now? 

John gasped for air that he couldn’t seem to breathe. An iron band wrapped around his chest. He was being smothered …

He was back, three weeks in time, to that seedy Oregon rental. Bits of foam floating through the air and the smell of blood everywhere and his ears still ringing from the gunfire. The fear. The anger. The loss of it all….

Mycroft’s face seemed to loom, then his hand came up and slapped John gently on the cheek. It didn’t hurt. John was pretty sure it wouldn’t have hurt if Mycroft had belted him with his fist. But the shock seemed to bring his attention fully to the fore. John had lost several seconds during which Mycroft had slid in next to him and shut the door and the car had begun moving. Suddenly John’s senses were filled with the delicate smell of Mycroft’s cologne mixed with the leather seats and the chill of the cars air conditioning. But the expression was what was most arresting. Where Sherlock would have been furious, Mycroft seemed almost pleased.

“Come back, John,” said Mycroft gently. “Come back. Settle. That’s it, deep breath.” He put his hand on John’s shoulder. John didn’t dare shrug it off.

“What will happen to her,” asked John. Sarah had betrayed him, but he couldn’t blame her. She’d used him, but he’d used her first. Perhaps she’d been Mycroft’s mole from the start. But no, he couldn’t believe that. If she’d been a mole she wouldn’t have been so upset. She’d been grieving for a friend she’d lost. Grieving for him.

“Don’t hurt her,” John said fervently. “She didn’t know, she didn’t know anything. Punish me not her. Let her go.”

“John,” said Mycroft. “Regardless of what happens to her, you will be punished as you deserve.”

John shuddered. “But you won’t hurt her — she did what you wanted her to. You won’t take her surgery away because I tricked her.”

“You loved her didn’t you?” said Mycroft, sympathetically. “Those long conversations over coffee weren’t just buttering her up for a job. No, you genuinely felt connected to her.”

It was too painfully close to the truth for John to answer. How long had Mycroft been watching? Did Sherlock know?

“And you used her. What you would have her do was not just illegal. It was _dangerous_. Really, John, what sort of man are you, that you’d ruin your lady friend’s life so callously?”

“I had to,” said John softly. Then harder, “She’s innocent, I tricked her. What will happen to her, Mycroft?”

“The letter was the test, John. One you failed. You worry that I might punish her, but it couldn’t be worse than what you set her up for yourself. You know that if she’d been caught in Calais with that note, she would have been dragged down through the court system. Not even I could have prevented that. Her name would be published in the paper. Doubtless her surgery, as fragile and new as it is, would have suffered from the bad publicity. All because she was duped by a man that she thought was charming and sweet. Who she thought _liked her_.”

The last words burned as painfully as the collar ever had.

“ And she was an innocent dupe, I assure you,” Mycroft went on. “I knew of her existence, of course, nearly from the beginning, and certainly from the point where you began meeting outside the laundrette. But she wasn’t mine. She was simply a fortuitous event. Until this morning, she had no idea of your status. She even resisted the notion of it, until I showed her the paperwork and photos and explained how the internal collar worked. You know what she said?”

“No.”

“She said, ‘You should have made him wear a collar.’” Mycroft smiled. “She went on to say that she has no interest in joining the abolitionist movement and that she would never have willingly involved herself with a terrorist. When I told her about the innocent doctor you were planning on killing and the appallingly violent and indiscriminate method you’d chosen to take him out, she broke down. She told me that you were not the man she thought you were. She repudiated you completely.”

John shrank in his seat, feeling ashamed. Any fantasy he’d had of someday getting together with her died.

“She didn’t want to meet you again,” Mycroft went on, inexorably. “I’m afraid I made her. I told her that if she cooperated with the investigation to out your French contacts, that I would do everything in my power to prevent her name from being dragged through the papers when the story eventually broke. Of course, the crown will always harbour suspicions of her loyalty, and I imagine she’ll always carry a red flag by her name, but as long as she remains cooperative and keeps her nose clean, there is no reason why she can’t carry on with her doctorly ambitions.”

John squeezed his eyes shut. _Oh, God, Sarah. I never meant--_

“It hurts doesn’t it, John,” said Mycroft, running a hand gently down his back, as if reassuring him. “And yet you chose this path, deliberately. You loved her. And you put her in terrible danger.”

True. All true.

“Tell me, John,” Mycroft’s voice was deep with disapproval. “Is this really the sort of man you are? The kind who would use the ones you love and then cast them aside as soon as that use has ended?” His words were so soft and yet cut through John like knives. “Are you really so selfish?”

_No, I’m not. I’m not. I hadn’t thought of the consequences. Yes, I had, but only as they concerned myself. Am I selfish?_

“This is important, John, I’m leaving my brother in your care. And as your eavesdropping this morning has told you, he has begun to have feelings for you. Feelings I’m not sure you’ve earned.”

John was trembling. He didn’t want to be trembling. He did care about Sarah. He did care about Sherlock. And now he was terrified for both of them. He didn’t dare be terrified for himself. He didn’t dare consider the retribution Mycroft would hand him out. 

“Oh, John,” said Mycroft, putting an arm around him. “Let it go. All that fear you are holding in you now. Let it go. Trust in me and I’ll take care of you. You are a rubbish leader, John, but a magnificent follower. Follow me, now, and I won’t lead you wrong.” Mycroft pulled him closer, stroking his hand through John’s hair, then lower, to the narrow incision mark, stroking it lightly. “Don’t you see, it’s not a bad thing that you are a fighter or a lover, you just need to know when to fight and who to love. Do you understand, John? Are you listening?”

How could John not listen? His entire being was gripped by Mycroft. His words in his ear, his hands on his body. The smell of his cologne in John’s nose. It seemed that there wasn’t room for anything but Mycroft.

“Answer me, John,” admonished Mycroft. “I don’t wish to shock you.”

“I’m listening,” said John faintly and was rewarded.

“Master,” corrected Mycroft.

“I’m listening, Master,” John repeated.

“Do you love me?” Mycroft asked. “Remember I insist on honesty. I will never punish you for being honest.”

John was thankful for the insistence of truthfulness. “No,” he said.

Mycroft pulled him tighter and stroked his back. “You wouldn’t really, would you. You hate me. I’ve cast myself as the villain in this drama. The one who has taken everything away from you. And yet, I don’t hate you, John. I care very deeply about you.”

John shuddered. He didn’t believe it, but he couldn’t not believe it either. He didn’t understand Mycroft at all. Everything had gone so confusing and the way Mycroft held him reminded of parent comforting a child.

“But you should know there’s another person who I also care very deeply about. A person who is nearly as innocent as you in all this. Who has tried his very damnedest to protect you from yourself. A person who loves you and whose love you’ve ignored and rejected.”

“Please forgive me, master,” said John, breaking down. “I’ll never hurt your brother. I shouldn’t have dated Sarah. It was all a mistake.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” agreed Mycroft. “I know of your extensive dating history. You are quite the flirt. But no more. Please understand this, John, while some masters allow their slaves to make attachments, either through neglect and disinterest, or out of sentimental mercy, I will not. Sarah was the last. I shall see to it that you never date nor become emotionally attached to another woman. Even if you never return Sherlock’s love, you will at least not rub it in his face.”

John winced into Mycroft’s chest.

Mycroft gave him one last squeeze, then sat him back up straight. “There we go. You see, I can be merciful, John.” They’d pulled in front of 221 Baker Street. He was home.

“You aren’t going to punish me?” John was speaking more to himself than to Mycroft. He had expected, well perhaps not expected so much as feared, that Mycroft would take him to some Imperialist interrogation centre to be tortured in some dank basement.

“Why should I?” asked Mycroft mildly. “You’ve just delivered to me the means to infiltrate and rout out the abolitionists in Calais. With your letter of introduction, who knows how deep my agent will be able to penetrate that tight knit group. No, I’m very pleased.”

John deflated.

“But now that you bring it up, there is one more thing I’ll charge you with. John look at me.”

John turned to face Mycroft, artificial pleasure insidiously caressing his mind, throwing him off his guard.

“Excellent. I have a job for you John.” The smile was off of Mycroft’s face. “A very serious one. Regardless of your feelings, or lack there of, for Sherlock, I want you to seduce him.”

“What?” John stiffened.

“This isn’t punishment John. I’d be asking you to do this at this point in your conditioning, even if this affair with Sarah hadn’t happened. It’s necessary for my data that you have some form of sexual encounter with one of your masters, to see the effect the collar has on your performance. Though it isn’t much talked about in polite circles, it is a common thing for masters to sleep with their slaves. The effect of the the collar’s reward system on a slave during sex would be of great interest to the committee.”

John’s mouth had gone dry.

“I’d hoped that it might happen naturally by this point, but your fling with Sarah has put rather a crimp in matters.”

John was far too shaken to follow Mycroft’s logic. “He said he wouldn’t,” was all he could manage by way of rejection.

“Naturally, and he won’t, unless you initiate it.” Mycroft’s phone buzzed and he looked blandly at the screen. “However, should you initiate, I highly doubt he’ll refuse.”

“You are asking me to initiate my own rape,” said John. “I can’t. I just can’t.”

“Let me put it to you this way, John,” said Mycroft levelling him a look with no humour at all. “The alternative choice is that you sleep with _me._ My only reluctance in the matter is that I’d rather not rouse Sherlock’s jealousy. But if it comes to it, I require no seduction on your part to do the deed, and you can trust I will be quite thorough in my data collection. So which shall it be? Do I let you out here, with your new mission? Or do I tell the driver to continue on to my flat?”

“Let me off here,” said John swiftly.

Mycroft smiled again, looking rather relieved. “You’ve had rather a shock today, so I’ll give you until tomorrow to gather back your composure and complete the seduction. I will collect you again on Friday to debrief you if you were successful, or to bed you if you were not. Oh, and John: Sherlock’s feelings on the matter are a bit raw, so I’d prefer we keep this order between ourselves.”

John nodded numbly.

“Very well,” said Mycroft. “Off you go. I believe Sherlock gave you a list of chores to do, I suggest you get started.” 

The driver opened John’s door and John all but jumped to get out. He felt, rather than saw, the sack of laundry being handed to him. And then the window rolled down, and Mycroft called out. “Sherlock will be back at seven. Try not to get into more trouble. Remember, you are being watched.”

The car pulled away from the curb and John was alone. Except that he wasn’t. He looked up at the building opposite and saw a lace curtain with just a tiny dark corner pulled back. Was there a man with a microphone back there. There was a pensioner sitting on a bench waiting for the bus two streets down. Was he a spy? Up there near the light was a CCTV camera pointed in his direction.

Shit. Shit. What was he to do?

* * *

John had finished all his chores and was sitting stiffly in a chair in front of the muted telly by the time Sherlock returned. He’d burned through all the stages of panic and all that was left was a numb shock. The only given was that Sherlock would find some way to punish him.

Sherlock took off his coat and glanced at the telly. 

“What is that thing you are watching?” he asked in a voice dripping with derision. John couldn’t tell if he was in a bad mood or just showing his natural contempt of anything that didn’t immediately interest him.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “I think it has to do with housework.”

“And this holds your interest?” asked Sherlock doubtfully. 

“I do a lot of housework,” said John. So it was natural contempt after all. John was almost disappointed, he just wanted it all to be done and things back to normal. And no mistake, the other shoe had to drop sometime, but not right now apparently. This agony would drag out a bit longer.

He picked up the clicker and turned it off. “Shall I start your dinner, master?” 

John stood up, intending on going to the kitchen, but his eyes caught on Sherlock and he froze. In the lamplight, Sherlock’s skin had taken on a golden hue. It looked smooth and soft, except for the trace of patchy stubble over the chin. John wondered what his lips felt like.

He shuddered with such screwed up emotions that he couldn’t tell if what he was feeling was abject terror or inappropriate lust. In his head, a mantra set up. _Seduce him. Must seduce him._

Then it tipped sharply to terror. Not now. He licked his lips and then pushed himself to finish walking.

Thankfully, Sherlock was texting on his bloody phone again and hadn’t noticed the hesitation. “Mmm, yes, dinner would be nice.”

John got started. The meal he had planned was fairly simple. He was too off kilter and preoccupied to trust himself with anything more elaborate than a basic meat and potatoes dish. He served up half on a plate and wondering dimly if Sherlock would allow him to eat any of it or if he’d punish him by making him go hungry. Perhaps it might be a mercy if Sherlock didn’t. John wasn’t hungry.

Whether or not he’d get to eat, Sherlock was expecting his supper, so John grabbed the plate and turned to place it on the table. Only to find Sherlock standing two feet behind him, staring speculatively. 

John froze again. Mycroft’s voice spoke in his head again, in soft, deceptively kind tones: _Seduce him._

Completely unbidden, John’s mind conjured a fantasy of lying naked, flat on his back, on Sherlock’s bed, while Sherlock stared down at him with those icy, piercing eyes. They were close enough now that Sherlock’s natural sweet-musky scent was in John’s nose, and he fancied he could feel just a bit of the heat from his body. Below, hidden under loose jeans and looser pants, John’s cock twitched against his thigh.

He swallowed.

The moment lasted the space of two seconds. Then Sherlock reached out and took the plate from John’s hand. He then turned and settled himself into his customary place at the kitchen table, his attention taken up nearly entirely by the food. “Feed yourself as well,” he said offhandedly. Apparently the rule of eating separately was over with.

John quickly dished the rest up on another plate, tucked the pans in the sink to soak, then joined Sherlock. The silence between them was painfully thick. Someone might as well have put up a neon sign over their heads proclaiming, _we have major issues_.

Sherlock swallowed his food and then, at last, met his eye. “Yes. I did know about Sarah Sawyer.”

“How long?” John’s voice was rough. He wanted to know. He was afraid to know.

“Difficult question,” said Sherlock, placing his fork down and wiping his fingers against a cloth. “I suspected there would be someone _like_ Sarah from the second day I knew you. You knew Mycroft was after your French contacts and you’d try to get a message to them to warn them. It would have to be a courier of some sort. The French Postal service is too bound up with permanent addresses, too traceable, too vulnerable to intercept. The internet is too public, you didn’t want _us_ tipped off. Phones were clearly out: You’d have called the first chance you could if you _had_ a number to contact them with. But the resistance relies on temporary mobiles, which they chuck after a few weeks of use or any major shake up. Likely any number you might have had memorised would be invalid. Mycroft was disappointed in that, by the way. He’d tapped into all the phones along your route hoping you’d at least try.”

John stared. _All of them?_ “How?”

Sherlock made an exaggerated shrug. “Phones, CCTV, wifi: if it communicates, Mycroft has his finger in it. Just take it as a given that you have been under intense scrutiny, and not merely through your GPS, from the very start. My brother would hardly allow his prize to wander around the dangerous streets of London without keeping tabs on him.”

John pressed his lips together. He didn’t feel like anyone’s prize. But the spying bit fit. He really should have suspected, given what was in the file Mycroft had amassed. But why keep that surveillance a secret? Mycroft had been trying to rub the resistance out of him from the start. What better way than to point out that he couldn’t even bloody _sneeze_ without it being logged in damn minion’s notebook. Why had Mycroft let it play out so long — weeks — without even a _hint_? 

The question answered itself: To get that letter, of course. Mycroft had waited just long enough to get the means to infiltrate the French chapter, and the second that was done, he’d shut John down. He’d been planning this from the very first day. Could it be that the only reason John was a slave at all was as a tool to out the other members of the Cause?

“From the deepening glower on your face, I suspect you are wondering if Mycroft enslaved you for the sole reason of bringing down the Abolitionist movement in France.” Sherlock picked up his fork again and speared a bite of pork chop. “The answer is absolutely not. There are far simpler ways to accomplish that. You offered up a fortuitous opportunity on the side and he snatched it. I told you: everything he does serves multiple purposes. Even this.”

“But you knew this. All of this. Sarah. From the start?” _Maybe he didn’t care,_ John thought. It seemed impossible.

“Of course.” Sherlock placed the morsel in his mouth and chewed.

“And you didn’t tell me,” said John feeling bitter and betrayed. “Why let me go on? Why let me get my hopes up? Why not _stop_ me?”

Sherlock raised his brows. “So that you could wait it out a few more weeks, or months, or however long you felt it would take before Mycroft believed in your submission and lowered his guard? Or perhaps until you’d come up with a plan you felt was more clever and hidden, that we wouldn’t suss out in time to prevent your escape? Why would I aide and abet that?”

_No, why would he._

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “I told you before, I don’t care a fig about your former terrorist activities. As far as I’m concerned that chapter of your life is over. If Mycroft is able to shut down the French Abolitionists, kudos to him! It will be one less distraction from your duties. In any case, you were so obvious, that I hardly had to worry about anything coming of it.”

John stared down at his untouched plate, then shoved it away. He couldn’t even pretend to eat. “Well. Cats out of the bag. Eggs on my face. You might as well gloat. It’s not like I can use the information anyway. Go ahead and tell me how stupidly transparent I was.”

Sherlock seemed to consider for a moment. Then he nodded. “You dithered so long I’d nearly forgotten about it, but then I noticed how antsy you’d become after the Fryling case, and then I knew you were actively up to no good. To confirm, I followed you on your chores the next day, and sure enough, you met an attractive woman of approximately the same age and education level as yourself and escorted her into a coffee shop. I loitered for a while after that, noting that you appeared to be on very friendly terms already. You can behave quite charmingly when it suits you, John. After approximately an hour you parted. Later that night I was able to locate your secret mobile hidden behind the skip.”

“Why didn’t you stop me?” asked John. “You don’t care about the Cause. Mycroft could have infiltrated it some other way. If you’d confronted me that night, Sarah might be —“

John stopped. He could see Sherlock’s jaw muscles tightening. He didn’t answer for so long that John considered backing away from the topic all together. 

“Because,” said Sherlock finally. “I wasn’t sure at first that she was anything more than an illicit affair. And I wanted Mycroft to know that I wasn’t jealous of you seeing a lady friend.”

“You weren’t?” asked John, relieved.

“Of course, I was. Seethingly.” Sherlock brought his fork down with a loud clink. His latched onto John’s with a keen focus. “Does that surprise you? That I can be jealous? I’m not a perfect person, John. I’m not even a nice one. I have insecurities, as you have cunningly discovered. I make mistakes, though they are rare. I’m sure you’ve been told what an arrogant, cold blooded bastard I can be.”

 _Told? Hell, I’ve seen that for myself,_ John wisely didn’t say.

“I’ve come to terms with myself,” Sherlock went on. “I like who I am, and anyone else can live with it or walk away — except you, of course. You have to live with it, like it or not.” His voice grew quiet, almost secretive. “I was honestly hoping though that you might come to like me. Ridiculous notion.”

John’s heart lurched. “I do like you.”

“How can you?” scoffed Sherlock. “In your eyes, I’m the embodiment of evil. A _slaveowner_ , and an unrepentant one. I’ll admit that right out. I _like_ owning you. I like that you are mine. I like knowing when I get up in the morning, you’ll be right there. At the end of a case, you’ll be by my side. I like talking to you. I like looking at you. I’ve even, god help me, come to find your little quirks and eccentricities charming. You are fantastically useful. The institution of Slavery has brought us together and I don’t regret it for a moment. But don’t claim _you_ like being my slave, because I know you don’t.”

“I don’t like being your slave,” said John. “You are right.”

“Well I wish you did.”

“Even if I wanted to, I can’t,” said John. “This institution is wrong. I’m still the same person I was a month ago, collar or no. I might be legally stripped of personhood, but my personhood remains.”

There was silence again. Then Sherlock shoved aside his food as well. “You are wrong.”

“What?” said John surprised.

“You ask why I didn’t stop you. I _did_ try to stop you. Belatedly perhaps, but I did.”

“The tethering,” John murmured, groaning.

“I tried to spare you, John, but you refused to be spared. I knew you and Mycroft were destined for a confrontation, and you would be the loser. I tried to stop you. I put three days in on it, trying to focus your fickle attentions on your duty and me. I _tried_ to break you gently, slowly, painlessly. But even if Mycroft hadn’t put an end to it, it was futile. I see that now. You are too stubborn. You won’t go softly, you are going to hold on to your sense of independence to the bitter end.” Sherlock stood wiping his fingers once more. He tossed the cloth down, angrily. “You are going to _shatter_ and I have no idea what will become of you after that.”

John was left watching him retreat to his room. The door shut with a bang.


	8. Chapter 8

John cleaned the kitchen, watched some more telly, and finally turned it off to write the bare minimum in his blog before midnight. He wasn’t sure he was even making sense anymore. He was half tempted to delete the entire blog. 

Instead he reread his first oh-so-naive posts. God, he sounded so self-righteous. Noble John vs the monolithic evil of the Holmes. He’d really thought he could overturn Mycroft’s mindset in a thousand word rant. Stupid. Childish. What was he, twelve? It was no wonder the Holmes brothers never took him seriously.

He tried to change some of the most over-the-top language, but the program simply spat error messages back at him. He experimented around and discovered that edit functions disabled. John cursed and wondered again what possible use Mycroft had for his words. Something to point at and laugh, John supposed.

“It’s midnight,” came a low voice. “Stop messing with your blog and come to bed.”

“I don’t have a bed,” snapped John, too frustrated to be polite. He looked up to see Sherlock standing by the open door to his room.

“Of course, you do. In here, same as last night. Come along.” 

The damn floor mat. Maybe he’d get used to it in time. John pressed the lid of his computer down with more force than the machine liked. He was overwhelmed with the desire to pick it up and slam it down again. Yell at Sherlock. Let out this pressure building up in his chest somehow. God help him, he needed to get ahold of his temper or he was going to be in a world of trouble. John needed to stay on Sherlock’s good side or things were going to be a lot worse in two days.

“Stroppy,” Sherlock commented, but he seemed more amused than annoyed. As well he should be considering the sulk he’d just finished indulging in.

John skirted past Sherlock and walked into the room. Then stopped and stared. The blanket and pillow he’d been using the last few nights was gone. The mat lay bare. Johns feet could already feel the pinch of the draft. John looked around to see if Sherlock had set up any other place for him to sleep. Eventually he had to look at the bed. His pillow and blanket were there, tossed to the side nearest the wall.

“You mean in your bed.”

“You had no objection last night. Nothing’s changed.”

 _Seduce him_ came Mycroft’s voice. Together in the same bed, it would be the logical opportunity. Maybe this was a good development. Oh god, how the hell was he going to do this?

“I’m going to the living room to play my violin for a bit. With the door shut, the sound should be baffled enough to be tolerable.”

John let out the air in his lungs as Sherlock closed the door on him. There went that chance. The reprieve didn’t really make him feel any better. It was just drawing out the inevitable. How the hell was he going to do this? Even if John really wanted to sleep with him, Sherlock wanted what he wanted when he wanted it it, and was like a brick wall when it came to manipulation. It’s not like he could ply him with liquor and lines and expect it to go over.

_I’m so far over my head…_

John heard strains of music coming from the other room. Breathing a deep sigh, he undressed to his pants and vest, turned off the light, then climbed onto the bed. It was still a bit warm from where Sherlock had recently been lying. He moved over until he was in a cool spot, wrapped the worn blanket around himself and turned to face the wall. 

He meant to stay up and try to start things up, somehow, when Sherlock finally turned in, but the bed was just as soft as the night before. Exhaustion hit him like a physical wave, pinning his heavy limbs to the mattress. His eyes closed. John soon found himself falling asleep to thoughts of wrapping Sherlock in his arms and somehow melting together. Thoughts of Sarah and Mycroft were lost in a warm fantasy of finding love.

Not even Sherlock settling into bed roused him.

* * *

John woke to the smell of Sherlock and a slight dip in the bed where he’d recently lain. Morning light turned the room grey. The bedroom door was open and the sound of a shower drifted in.

 _Seduce him_. 

John felt a jolt of worry, and sat up. He’d missed the perfect opportunity. If he’d just woken up with Sherlock, he could have reached out, touched his skin, held him. He imagined that Sherlock would stiffen at that point, but then he’d melt, wouldn’t he? When he saw that John was willing to give him what he wanted? To have sex? Would it stop Sherlock’s snarky remarks when he planted a kiss on those lips?

But what if Mycroft was wrong. What if Sherlock didn’t want to sleep with John, not because of some inner nobility (Christ, when did Sherlock ever show that?) but because he just wasn’t _interested_. What if when John finally got around to … to… flirting with him, he just stared at John with revulsion. Or backed away, clearing his throat, and said, “terribly flattered, but no thank you, you aren’t my type.” Or perhaps, crueler, “Oh, John, I’ve _seen_ your body. What on Earth made you think I wanted to _touch_ it.” John turned and looked at himself in the old-fashioned dressing mirror in the corner. It seemed to him that he looked old and worn and not terribly attractive to either gender.

If Sherlock rejected him — that left Mycroft. John gritted his teeth, remembering the man’s hands caressing him. He couldn’t even imagine having sex with him. His mind just backed away from the whole concept in horror.

Perhaps Sherlock will have sex with me out of pity? Or maybe he’d simply be scandalised by Mycroft’s blatant intrusion into his love life.

The water in the shower stopped and after some rustling he heard the moan of the hairdryer. The clock was ticking. After three weeks of living with the man, John knew that Sherlock’s schedule was utterly random. He might hang about all day or rush out and be gone until bedtime. 

John got up, dressed as sharply as he could given his limited wardrobe. He finger combed his hair, hoping Sherlock wouldn’t mind a bit of beard stubble, since he didn’t dare delay long enough to shave. Now was the time to make his move, or else give himself up to the inevitability of Mycroft’s lust. This was the mission, John told himself. _I can do it._

The door opened and Sherlock stepped out, covered from neck to knee in a plush robe. His hair was an artfully tousled mop of curls, his face, soft and smoothly shaved. He even looked a bit young for his years. John had already seen how slim and toned he was. For a man, he was quite attractive. John suddenly let out an awkward chuckle. For all the incredibly messed reasoning behind this seduction, he wasn’t sure that he was getting the worst of the deal.

“What’s so funny?” asked Sherlock, his eyes narrowing, body visibly tensing.

John remembered the teasing he’d given Sherlock a few days ago, and how painfully body shy he was. “No — not laughing at you. I was just thinking that, that, you’ve aged much better than I have.” _Go for it. Now’s the time._ “You are actually very attractive. I like your hair like that.” _Oh, smooth!_ John thought sarcastically.

Sherlock’s lips tweaked into a brief confused smile. “Thank you.” Then it disappeared. “Though I’m curious to know where these compliments come from.”

 _Think fast,_ thought John. “Come from? They come from me! I’ve always thought that. I, I guess now that I know I’m not going anywhere, I, it occurs to me that, I can say it.” _I am on a roll._ John tried not to grimace.

Sherlock’s head tilted to the side. John could see him thinking. Suddenly his eyes widened and he straightened up. “Oh!” That was not a happy sound. “Oh,” again, softer. Sherlock turned away. “I see.” Sherlock rubbed his chin. “So what’s the alternative, John?”

“Alternative?”

“What did Mycroft threaten you with if you didn’t throw yourself at me?”

“I’m not —“ 

Sherlock flashed a look of anger at him. “Tell me.” The order curled into John’s ear like a the growl of a lion.

So much for keeping it a secret. “I have the rest of today to seduce you. If I’m not successful, he’ll take me back to his place and I’ll have to have sex with him.” Then John involuntarily gasped. The collar still worked.

Sherlock looked as shocked as if John had slapped him. “He said that _he’d_ sleep with you, if I didn’t? Not one of his minions — him?”

John nodded, wondering why it made any difference. “Yes. He said he wouldn’t need seducing and he’d be very thorough.” 

“Oh, he would,” said Sherlock nodding. “I’m sure of it. Why? What was the reason?”

“To see the effect of the collar on me during sex. He said that it was something the committee would be interested in, since masters sometimes have sex with their slaves.” John swallowed. “Also, he said it wasn’t punishment for dating Sarah, or for trying to hook up with the abolitionist movement, but I think it is. You say that he never does anything for only one reason. I’m guessing this is one of those three for one deals.”

“Most likely.” Sherlock was thinking of something. “Oh.”

John stared, mostly unseeingly, at Sherlock’s long throat. This was turning out to be even more awkward that he’d anticipated. Was Sherlock going to reject him? Or would he let him continue? Had he already ruined his chances? John frowned. He had been somewhat steeled for Sherlock to be shocked or horrified, but he wasn’t expecting him to be so _cerebral_ about it. But now Sherlock was staring at him with that look he got when he solved puzzles.

Finally, John couldn’t take the suspense. “Would you like me to make you some breakfast?” he asked.

“Your Cause,” said Sherlock, ignoring his question. “If you had to choose between your lady friend, Sarah, and your Cause, which would you do?”

That answer was painfully obvious. “I’d choose the Cause. You know that. Mycroft reamed me out over it.”

“Yes. It wasn’t that you cared nothing about Sarah though. You did.”

Ouch. Did they really have to get into this again?

“Answer me: you did.”

“Yes!” snapped John. “I did. And I got her involved without her knowledge or consent. I’m an arsehole. I’m a wanker.” Oh god, the collar. It felt so good.

“You are a fanatic,” said Sherlock. “It was a _sacrifice._ ” His face lit up with joy.

John frowned. He hardly expected Sherlock to be on _his_ side of this. “Yes. It was. Are you worried that I’ll sacrifice our relationship for the Cause?”

Sherlock looked scornfully at him. “What? No. Of course, you’d sacrifice our relationship. In a heart beat. I’d hardly expect you to do differently. I’m the enemy, for God’s sake. But what else would you sacrifice, John? You were willing to fall off the grid, never to talk with your friends or family again.”

“I did that two years ago,” said John.

“You were willing to sacrifice your sense of duty to your country. You went AWL. That’s not a small deal, given your tendency to form intense loyalties.”

“Yes. Obviously, I did!” What was Sherlock getting at.

“You are a moral man, but you were willing to risk the lives of civilians with your bombs. Who knew what clerks might have been in those processing centres. And that pipe bomb you were caught making, that could have easily taken out a civilian instead of it’s intended target. You weren’t above sacrificing other peoples lives to your Cause, even those who were innocent.”

John swallowed. It wasn’t that it didn’t weigh on him doing such things. He’d worried every time he set an explosive that he might take out someone who wasn’t involved. He knew that with war comes pain and sorrow and unfair misery. But … slavery simply couldn’t be tolerated. War hurt. But it was a necessary hurt. “I’m willing to sacrifice _my_ life for the Cause.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock excitedly. “But you don’t mean your life, really. You mean your death. You are willing to die for your Cause.” 

“No, I mean I’m willing to sacrifice my _life_ for the Cause,” said John, feeling suddenly stronger and more sure of himself than he had in weeks. “I didn’t just toss myself on a grenade, like some kamikaze. I was willing to put aside love and jobs and stability, forever. To live off the grid. To put all my energy and imagination into the Cause. I did my damnedest for it, Sherlock. I woke up every morning knowing that it could be my last and I was happy, because I was making the world a better place.”

“You were willing to risk being made a slave yourself, for your Cause.”

John rolled his eyes. “It figures that that’s what you’d get out of what I just said. You want me to be happy to be a slave, since at least I got to blow up a few buildings first? That’s not how it works. I failed, Sherlock, and every day just grinds it in on me that I failed. If you would let me go, Sherlock, if you’d just let me slip away, I swear I’d be more careful in how I went about supporting the movement. You don’t want me endangering civilians, I can agree to that. I can take up writing. I was actually considering writing a manifesto before I got caught. I swear, if I’m given the chance, I’ll find some other way to be of service to it that is non-violent.”

There was an intensity in Sherlock’s eyes, though, that said that he was only barely listening to John’s words. He was just on the cusp of understanding something. Suddenly he closed his eyes and his face grew strangely transcendent. He tilted his head back. “Perfect.”

“What?”

“I understand what Mycroft sees in you John,” said Sherlock at last. “You are _perfect_. Oh, I knew he was brilliant, but I didn’t understand _how_ brilliant.” Sherlock grinned at him, reaching out a hand to his cheek. “I see what he’s trying to do, John!”

“What is he trying to do?” asked John.

“He’s trying to break you and turn the most complete fanatic he could find into a perfect slave that he can parade about,” said Sherlock. “Ha. I haven’t a single reason not to support him. Brilliant.”

John stepped back alarmed. “What?”

“Mycroft was right. I’ve been coddling you, as though you were too fragile, too stupid to face the full consequences of your actions. But you are a man, and you’ve chosen your path with eyes wide open. Oh, this does make my decisions much easier.”

“Sherlock,” said John aghast. The look on Sherlock’s face was of unholy excitement.

“John, strip!” ordered Sherlock, gleefully “It’s past time I took you to bed.”

* * *

John didn’t move. Although Sherlock was only two feet away from him, it seemed as if he were miles away. The floorboards beneath John’s feet were as solid as ever but he didn’t know where he stood anymore. Nothing made any sense. It was all a conspiracy against him, and it wasn’t fair, and even Sherlock who had never really been on his side but he’d trusted, goddamn it, _he’d trusted_ , had just turned his back on him. How had it happened?

A moment ago he’d had a fleeting glimpse of his former life, his purpose. He’d felt hope and it had been glorious. But it was gone now as swiftly as it had come. Snuffed out in a single sentence. _Mycroft was right_.

Sherlock had sided with Mycroft.

 _No, no, impossible._ Surely, if Sherlock was to have any epiphany it would be to see that John was right after all. How could a man of his intelligence not understand that all people were equal and that to set some aside and strip away _everything_ was no less criminal than crimes he solved every day. How could he profess to care about John and not understand the agony of his position? How could he deny John’s personhood, see him as only a thing to be used. _I thought he might love me_. 

No. Foolish. Stupid. Sherlock didn’t love anyone. Especially not a slave who had been foisted on him. He was only ever interested in the mystery surrounding Mycroft’s experiment on John. 

And he’d just solved the riddle of John’s existence. It was written all over Sherlock’s face, that joyous “case closed” satisfaction. He was happy for now, but then it would fade, the way it always did after his cases. In a day or two he’d be bored of it all and more than ready to move on.

 _He’ll have no further use of me._ John realised, sickly. _He never wanted a slave. I’ll be back to boring and stupid and in his way. He’ll give me back now to Mycroft, who has no room for me. And he’ll give me to someone else; an underling or a complete stranger, or one of those factories that keep their slaves penned up in dark, dank basements and work them until they die in their own filth._

The cold ribbed steel of the slave-runner’s airplane flashed in full sensory detail in John’s mind. The smell. The horrific smell.

_I have to get out of here. It’s not safe. I’ve got to run, fight, claw, kick, escape…._

Sherlock’s grin died away. “Think hard before you do anything,” he said in a low voice. He was looking at John’s side.

John looked down and saw his hand had tightened into a fist. He noticed that knees were bent, his eyes so wide they felt odd and dry. He felt his pulse in the skin. He was tense as a spring ready to move in some direction. 

“You’re in shock, John,” said Sherlock. “You’re panicking. I need you to listen very closely to me. Unclench your fist. You aren’t going to hit me.”

John stared at the hand. He wasn’t going to hit Sherlock. What would be the point of it. It wouldn’t solve anything. It wouldn’t change his circumstances. He was utterly alone in the world. The Cause was gone. Sherlock was gone. Everything was gone. The only thing left was bare survival itself. He couldn’t hit his way out of this. There were minions and cameras and spies everywhere. 

Slowly he unclenched the fist. 

A wave of bliss rocked his soul. Better than alcohol. Better than morphine. He sobbed in a breath.

“Good,” said Sherlock, relieved. “I know this seems cruel, but it’s for the best. Please, John. I wish I could tell you what the plan is, but I can’t. It would spoil the data and it wouldn’t make what you must go through any easier to bear. You must simply trust Mycroft. Or if you can’t trust him, trust me.”

John stared at Sherlock. He couldn’t trust anything. It was physically impossible. 

“How long,” asked John, his voice sounded thin and ghostly to his own ears.

Sherlock’s brows knit. “How long until what?”

“Until you give me back.”

“What on Earth are you talking about? Where would you get an idea of that — did Mycroft suggest it? Did he mention that he was taking you back at some point?” And now there was panic in Sherlock’s eyes.

John couldn’t make sense of Sherlock’s reactions. “But you solved it — I’m not a puzzle anymore am I? I can tell, you’ve got it all wrapped up, and now you’ll get bored with me, and please, don’t lie to me, I can’t handle that right now. I need to know, I need to prepare. If there’s a shred of kindness in you.”

“Oh good heavens,” said Sherlock, his eyes lighting up with understanding. “Yes, I’ve figured you out. Really, John, do you honestly think I’d devote this much attention to training you if I intended on tossing you back to Mycroft as soon as I seen through his game? Has nothing I’ve done in the last weeks made the least impression on you?” He sounded petulant, as though John had somehow hurt his feelings. “Or was that what you were hoping, that I’d give you up. You hate me so much that you thought you’d do better elsewhere.”

“No,” said John shaking his head. “No. I’d rather — I want to be with you. I choose _you_. But I don’t get that choice. You do. And you said _you didn’t want a slave._ You wanted a puzzle. And I’m not a puzzle anymore, am I.”

And it seemed as if there was a glint of compassion in Sherlock’s eyes. Though it could have simply been John’s hopeful imagination. “No you aren’t. But I also said you were terrifically useful to me, and that I was jealous of your other attachments, and that I _wanted you._ Do I really think I’d feel any of that towards someone I just considered a _case_. Do you think I feel that way about anyone else at all?” Sherlock definitely looked hurt now. 

“You aren’t going to send me away?” John’s terror began to fade.

“Get this through your thick head,” said Sherlock, angrily. He grabbed John by the scruff of his shirt. “I’m _never_ giving you away. Ever. Not to Mycroft, not to your Cause. You are mine, John. Mine, now until the day you die. If you can’t have faith in me, have faith at least in that.”

John nodded. Relief was heady. 

Sherlock let go of his shirt. “And I’m _certainly_ not going to allow Mycroft to sleep with you. The idea is utterly repulsive. So go take a shower now. Clean yourself up, shave, make yourself presentable. And for Gods sake, stop being so paranoid. I’m your master, I’ll tell you when to panic!”

John hurried to do just that.

* * *

“Remove the towel and lie down, face up on the bed,” instructed Sherlock cooly, as John walked back into Sherlock’s bedroom. 

John felt a drop of wetness from his hair drip across his hunched shoulders and draw a line down his back. He let go of the towel and let it fall to the floor, part of him thinking that he should take back to the bathroom to let it air dry on the rack. He was aware of how cold his body felt with the last of the shower’s warmth leaving his skin. He saw the way his flesh rose up in goosebumps. The strands of short curly leg hair breaking free from his skin one by one as they dried. John got up on the bed, which made a slight crunching sound under his knee. He rolled, hip meeting sheet, then elbow, then finally the cool slickness of 1000 thread-count sheets against his back.

A wave of bliss went through him, almost indistinguishable from happiness. 

Then it was gone and John found he was comfortable and relaxed. The bed smelled like Sherlock. Slightly musky. Slightly sweet. Slightly of warm wool and cool silk. John had always liked the way Sherlock smelled. It had come as something of a shock three weeks ago, when he finally rid the flat of the eternal stench of old curry and could actually smell him. People might actually pay to wear that scent.

“I know the bed is comfortable but don’t fall asleep,” said Sherlock. There was humour in his voice. That was good. Better than the earlier anger and hurt. “Open your eyes.”

John opened his eyes. He hadn’t realised they’d drifted shut. Again, pleasure.

“Tell me what you feel.”

“Good. Cold.”

“Uncomfortably cold?”

“No.”

There was no reason to lie. Lying meant thinking. There was an elephant in the room, but as long as John didn’t look for it, it seemed content to stay out of sight.

“Good. I apologise in advance for my less than stunning sexual skills. I may come off as a bit more clinical than you are used to, because, believe it or not, John, we are as far outside my comfort zone as we are yours. I’d rather not share the details of my intimate life with my brother, but since that’s not a choice, I’d rather do it only _once_ and have it be done. So. Thorough’s the word.”

“Okay,” said John. He looked over at Sherlock for the first time. Sherlock’s cheeks were pink as he awkwardly undid the buttons of his shirt.

“If you say _anything_ about my looks,” warned Sherlock, when he noticed John’s stare. “I will let Mycroft do this.”

John wondered vaguely what it was that made Sherlock so sensitive about his looks. He’d seen no ugly scars, or tattoos or disfigurement the last time Sherlock had stripped in front of him. What he had seen was attractive in a unique sort of way. A Sherlock sort of way. There was no need for Sherlock to look so utterly vulnerable and uncomfortable, right now. He was the master after all. Not the slave. He had a choice.

Sherlock folded his clothes with a prissy neatness John hadn’t thought him capable of, using the time to delay the inevitable and steel himself for what was to come. Now that it was no longer a mental game, but a physical reality, John could all but see Sherlock’s feet growing colder by the second. He was sucking in a deep breath as if he were literally about to dunk himself in ice-water.

 _He doesn’t want to sleep with me._ John knew. It should have been a relief, but it wasn’t. _He’s only doing this to keep me from Mycroft._ The idea of Mycroft being the one fussily stripping in the corner was almost too much for John’s imagination to bear.

And there was the elephant.

Christ. John knew what the noble thing to do was. It would be terribly easy to let Sherlock off the hook, stop this whole thing, and let Mycroft do the dirty deed. All he had to do was lie and say something awful about Sherlock’s looks. A couple choice words and Sherlock would stomp right out the door, and a few minutes later it would be Mycroft staring down at him with that mild look of disappointment on his face. Later it would boil over, and things would go back to normal without the spectre of incestuous voyeurism adding to the otherwise fucked up situation.

Then there would be only one victim in this: John. Besides, that’s what John did, save people, wasn’t it? He couldn’t save any more slaves. He couldn’t save himself. But he could save Sherlock from having to perform sexually for his evil older brother’s experiments. John could find self-respect in that.

Perhaps he wouldn’t even have to insult Sherlock. He could just suggest it. Sherlock might even be grateful.

Sherlock finished and turned to face John with a look of determination on his face. “I wish I could make this easier for you,” said Sherlock, “I wish that the circumstances —“ he stopped, frowning, as John’s expression registered.

John sat up and put his feet on the floor. “Sherlock, you don’t have to do this,” he said. His heart already felt lighter. “It’s okay. I know I said I chose you, but I was only thinking of myself. I’ll call Mycroft and go to him and he can rape me if that’s what he wants. We don’t both have to —“

Sherlock looked stunned for a sentence worth, then he took two steps forward and covered John’s mouth with his hand. “Shut. Up.”

Waiting a beat to let his words settle in, Sherlock then lifted his hand away and immediately replaced it with his lips.

They kissed. John felt the hunger in it, as if Sherlock were trying to devour his lips rather than simply suck them. The pressure was a little harder than felt good. It was wet, and sloppy, and toothy. And yet. And yet. The sheer yearning of it couldn’t be mistaken. It was as if in that one gesture Sherlock had finally found a way to slip past all the defensive barriers in John’s mind. All the doubts, the fears, that made him second guess Sherlock’s affections evaporated.

John finally let himself feel loved and wanted. 

It was the scariest feeling he’d ever felt in his life.

For half a second he held back, then he responded, pushing back through his lips all the desperation and need that had built up over the weeks. He had to have this. He needed this connection to someone. He’d been so lonely, so terribly lonely. Everything else was in flux, but Sherlock was real and warm and there in his arms. John clung to him and kissed him back. Despite the bruising, it felt good. Oh, it felt so good.

Sherlock’s arms grabbed him, pushing him back, so that he lay flat on the bed, his legs dangling off the side. And now Sherlock was on top of him, straddling his thighs, back hunched forward. His mouth never left John’s lips. Their tongues met and slid over and around each other, passing from one mouth to another. Warm, soft, slippery. Ticklishly sensitive. John’s heart raced and it seemed he couldn’t quite get enough air through his nose.

Then they broke apart and John breathed deeply, tasting Sherlock’s personal scent in the air like some special perfume. It smelled exciting. He was half-hard.

Sherlock’s hands ran down John’s torso, skimming over the lightly haired chest to his stomach. He sat up straight looking down at John with eyes that seemed positively ferocious in their intensity. It was as if he were memorising what he saw, as though it were the most fascinating thing that had ever appeared before him. His cock lay in the groove between John’s thighs, growing hotter and longer by the second.

“John,” said Sherlock in almost a whisper. “Touch my face.”

John reached up and let his fingertips skim over Sherlock’s freshly shaved cheek. The feeling of the collar mixed with the sensation from his fingertips. So good. So very good.

“Stroke my chest. Pinch my nipples,” Sherlock ordered, his eyes closing.

John felt the Sherlock’s chest, smooth and hairless, shuddering with every breath. The nipples were small and slightly oval. Pink as a flower. They hardened under his fingers. Sherlock hissed in a breath in time with the collars pulse.

“Roll me over,” ordered Sherlock. “Lay me on the bed.”

John’s hands moved away from Sherlock’s chest, down to his hips. It took a little effort. The collar made him want to lie back and relax rather than work, but he managed to lift the thinner man up, simultaneously rolling over onto his side. With a little less-than-graceful scrambling, John sat on Sherlock’s hips, pinning his master the mattress with his weight. Without being asked, John found Sherlock’s wrists and gripped them in his hands, bringing up to either side of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock’s erection pulsed between his buttocks, hot and thick and impossible to ignore.

“Kiss me,” said Sherlock.

John did. And when Sherlock turned his head away to break the kiss, it was only to order him to caress, stroke his hair, tongue his ear. Order upon order.

John complied without hesitation. The feeling of the collar mixed with the sensations of his skin in a way that made each feel more powerful. All worries and fears, willingness or unwillingness, even the ghost of Mycroft was long forgotten. He didn’t care. His brain simply didn’t have room for anything but the heady sensations of his skin against Sherlock’s and how right this felt. How perfect. The wet dreams had been hollow spectres compared to this. Nothing compared to the reality of Sherlock’s voice in his ear, his writhing body beneath John’s, the collar seducing him again and again and again.

Amid the kisses, and the hissed and sometimes garbled orders to _kiss, more there, there, my nipples please, John. Suck them, please_ , Sherlock pressed a bottle of lubricant into John’s hand.

“Touch yourself,” he finally ordered. “Pour it on your cock, and then prepare me.”

John whimpered as the fluid chilled his hot member. His hands were perhaps a bit more clumsy than he wished as he caressed the valley between Sherlock’s parted thighs. One hand lifted and weighed Sherlock’s balls while the other searched and found the pucker hidden beneath. Carefully, using the pads of his fingers rather than the nails, he stroked and tickled the tight muscle. It loosened nearly instantly under his ministrations. John prayed that his shaking hands didn’t bother Sherlock as he pushed his way in with first one then two fingers. 

“Oh God!” Sherlock shouted the moment John touched his prostate. “I’m good. Fuck me.”

John positioned himself, taking a moment to figure out how to fit their bodies together. Once the collar let go of his pleasure centres it came to him quick enough. Soon he had Sherlock rolled up into his lap, his knees spread, balls of his feet digging into the mattress to either side of John’s hips. And then John thrust forward into perfect warmth and tightness. _So good, so good._

“Thrust,” Sherlock ordered. “Now. Now. Now. Your hand on my cock, in time with it. Stoke me, now!”

And John fucked him and was fucked in turn by the collar. Every word from Sherlock’s ruddy lips brought another wave of reward. It was impossible to parse all pleasure. His cock, his hands, his mind. It simply overwhelmed John, like a wave battering the shore: inevitable, unstoppable, cresting and retreating, over and over. He pushed and took and thrust and pulled and stroked. Every ridge and vein of Sherlock’s cock became intimately known to John’s palm. The lube dried slowly, making each pull stickier and more difficult, but he didn’t slow down. Sweat trickled around Johns eyebrow, sliding past the corner of his eye to his widely gaping mouth. He tasted salt and his eyes stung.

_Oh yes, oh Sherlock. So close._

“Again,” said Sherlock, thrusting his hips up in time, his eyes screwed closed tight, face lined in a grimace of ecstasy. “Again, harder now, again, tighter with the hand.”

“Going to come,” John choked out.

“Stop!” said Sherlock, scrambling to pull himself off John’s cock. “Pinch it down! Don’t.”

John grabbed the base of his cock and pinched hard. For a second it seemed like he was going to come anyway, but when the collar’s pleasure died away he was relieved to know that he hadn’t. His balls ached with fullness. For a moment they simply rested, waiting for John’s rampant cock to stop twitching.

“Roll over,” instructed Sherlock and John lay on his back, still breathing fast. He stared up at Sherlock, wondering what was coming next.

“Are you a virgin?” he asked.

“You’ve read my file,” John replied.

“I mean to penetration,” said Sherlock. “Mycroft is thorough but not omniscient. Even he wouldn’t know if you’ve been planting vegetables up your behind or had a girlfriend who enjoyed pegging.”

John made a face at the thought. “No. Not that way.” It had never come up in his lovemaking with women and he hadn’t been curious enough to experiment on his own. Knowing that Mycroft had been that far up into his sex life made him rather glad that his tastes were rather vanilla.

Sherlock nodded. “Then you’ll need a bit more preparation than I did.” 

John tried not to tense in expectation. People liked this, he knew. Hell, he’d just seen how much Sherlock did. They were built the same. It stood to reason John would like it, too.

Sherlock found the lube on the the sheet next to them and slicked down his hand. “I wonder,” he said, his eyes feverishly bright. “John, hum,” he said suddenly.

John had no idea why Sherlock wanted him to hum, but he did, a tuneless note that hardly wavered even as the collar pleasured him. When the pleasure finished John realised with a shock that Sherlock had breached him with his slick fingers. There had been no pain. The only sensation had been a tingly, fragile pleasure and a sense of sudden fullness.

“That’s two fingers,” said Sherlock, his face breaking into a smile. “As I suspected, the collar has a relaxing effect on your involuntary muscles. Grab your cock,” said Sherlock, “And on the count of three I want you to start stroking it. One, two, three.”

A number of things happened simultaneously. As John stroked his terribly needy member, the friction brought him back to full hardness almost instantly. The collar rewarded him, sending it’s own, unique pleasure spike through John’s brain. And perhaps half a second later, Sherlock heaved him up and in position, lined up and thrust in.

By the time the collar’s pleasure ended, Sherlock was already balls deep. John belatedly gasped to find himself so completely and suddenly filled, but there had been no pain at all. No tearing. No ripping. Under the influence of the collar, his body had yielded to Sherlock without a fight. 

They held that position for several long breaths. John’s knees were tight against Sherlock’s ribs. Both of them shook with effort and excitement.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes,” said John, wide eyed with surprise. “Fine.”

“Good,” said Sherlock. “Then stroke yourself to my order, now. Now. Now.” 

John complied. With every stroke he felt Sherlock thrust as well, filling him inside. John felt oddly vulnerable and utterly at the mercy of Sherlock and the collar. But nothing hurt and it felt good. No more than good — so powerful. Intense. Frustrating. He fought the urge to writhe, and instead flexed his hips in time with Sherlock’s thrusts. He couldn’t stop the whimpers of pleasure that issued from his mouth. Not enough. 

“More! Please, more!” he begged. “Please, Sherlock, faster.”

Sherlock picked up the pace. His words fell like the beat of a drum, rhythmic and relentless. John’s cock issued a steady drizzle of pre-cum that bubbled around his fingers and under his foreskin with every stroke. Sherlock grew suddenly rougher, slapping against John’s bottom with every thrust, his fingers digging into John’s thighs, bringing them up towards John’s chest. Better. Better. The orders never stopped, even as Sherlock gasped for breath. The collar pleasured John untiringly. One wave upon another upon another, until John had to let his cock go and defy Sherlock’s orders or he’d have tipped right into orgasm, permission or no.

Sherlock voice became ragged and he stopped talking for a few seconds. He gulped and thrust savagely into John’s slick hole with enough force to make the whole bed tap the wall. 

“Stroke yourself, John!” he suddenly barked. “I’m coming. Come with me. Stroke!”

John grabbed his cock again and pulled on it, and between that and the sensations Sherlock’s cock was causing in him, and the damn collar in his brain, John was over the edge. He let out a loud cry, arching his back with the intensity of it. It felt as if his entire body was bursting with pleasure. And it went on, and on, well after the collar’s reward ended. John writhed in Sherlock’s hands as cum shot out over Sherlock’s torso and his own chest and chin.

And finally, the last of his cum dribbling out onto his belly, John let go of his cock and slumped, exhausted, against the sweat damp sheet. He breathed fast, his throat dry and sore from that final yell. Sherlock leaned over him, his hair clinging to his forehead and face damp and flushed with the afterglow. 

“How did that feel for you, John,” asked Sherlock, softly.

“Good,” John replied in a trembling voice. It had been more than that. It had been the most pleasurable sex he’d had in his life. He’d loved every second of it.

“Magnificent,” said Sherlock. And he leaned back with a half-surprised laugh. “My god — you have no idea how seductive you are right now, lying there, ravished and spent. How responsive you were. How decadent your cries of pleasure. They weren’t faked were they? None of it?”

It was a rhetorical question, but John answered, “No, it wasn’t.” _Would I have felt that even if it weren’t Sherlock touching me?_ he wondered. It was a frightening thought.

“Magnificent,” said Sherlock, his eyes lit with happiness. “You made me feel like I was the best lover in the world. That collar of yours is absolutely brilliant. You know what this makes you, don’t you, John?”

“A great whore,” he said, dryly.

“A fantastic weapon.” Sherlock grinned.


	9. Chapter 9

John was as ready as he could make himself when Mycroft showed up the next morning. He’d had his tea and breakfast, read through the better part of the morning paper, and largely convinced himself that he could handle whatever Mycroft threw at him. It couldn’t be any more humiliating than what he’d already lived through. So when the knock came, he stood up primly and opened the door without even a waver in his bad leg.

Mycroft was, as always, utterly impeccable, from his dove grey suit to his manicure. He swept past John with a bright, “Good morning!” and surveyed the room. “Not climbed out of bed yet, has he?” he said as he leaned his umbrella against the wall and pulled off his outer coat. He handed the latter to John, without a glance. John hung it up, like a good slave.

“If you mean Sherlock,” said John. “He’s up. He’s locked himself in his lab with his laptop. I think he’s working on a new essay for his blog, he wouldn’t tell me. I doubt he’ll come down. May I get you some tea?” The offer slipped out without thought. It wasn’t until he saw Mycroft’s startled reaction that he realised the implications.

Mycroft looked at him searchingly for a long time, just a trace of surprise coloured his face. “That’s quite solicitous of you, John.”

“Yes, well. Isn’t that what you’ve wanted? Me to be a good servant?” John glared. He still had enough emotional energy to be bitter. 

“Oh, exactly,” said Mycroft hurriedly. “No, I’m not complaining. But what has lead to the change of heart?” His eyes were piercing. John felt very much like one of Sherlock’s mysteries and wondered what it could be Mycroft was looking for. Something wound up in his ultimate use, from the look of it. 

He tried not to care. Not caring meant not giving into the pit of terror that lurked in his chest. Not caring meant he could still function. He was a slave after all. His fate was in other people’s hands now. Not his business, not his fault, not his problem. Except in that Mycroft expected an answer.

“What’s the point of fighting you?” asked John after a pause. He forced a shrug. “You’ve taken away all my routes of escape. You’ve made damn sure that I’ll never contact the Cause again. This is it — all I have left. I might as well make the best of it. Congratulations, you’ve domesticated me. Now, do you want that damn tea?”

“I could take exception to your tone of voice,” said Mycroft, mildly, and John shuddered with sudden fear. “But I wouldn’t want you mistaking the fact that you’ve pleased me. I was getting rather worried about your attitude. The committee was told that it would take about a week for the collar to break a slave. I don’t know to what extent it is your natural stubbornness, and what extent it was Sherlock’s naive blundering, but you managed to hold on the better part of a month. Seeing you begin to accept and embrace your fate is a good sign. A belated but very good one.”

“If you wanted Sherlock to follow your program better, you should have informed him what it was,” said John, then he repeated a third time: “Tea?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Mycroft. “And I really couldn’t have, John. Sherlock would never have forgiven me if I had deprived him of such a wonderfully complex mystery. Worse — he’d never have taken you on without it. And that would have been so much of a loss. Look at this place, John! Look at him! You’ve done wonders for him. Your influence is remarkable. He is healthier, cleaner, better fed and better _behaved_ than I have seen him in years. He’s happier as well. You’ve been a fantastic civilising influence on him.” He sat down at the kitchen table and pulled the morning paper towards himself. “External responsibility was just what he needed.”

“Is that what he meant by me being a fantastic weapon?” asked John, pausing at the sink. He shut the tap off and set the kettle on its base. “I’m your weapon against him. Pull my string and he reacts the way you want.” He didn’t like the idea that Sherlock could be manipulated this way. 

Mycroft looked up from the paper, surprised for a second. “Oh, not at all. Nothing so _minor_!” John thought he looked sincere, but who knew with Mycroft. “You _are_ a weapon, but not against Sherlock. Really, John, he would have seen through that in seconds, if that were my intention. No, I’m afraid I played to his weaknesses. He’s so tightly focused on individuals, their motivations, their random, chaotic, insignificant lives. He would have had it figured out much faster if weren’t so myopic, and I mean that in the figurative sense.”

“Yes, I know,” said John, putting a bag in a mug. “I’m not stupid.”

Mycroft smiled. “No you aren’t. In fact, you and I are very similar, John, would you believe? We are both big picture people. And that’s why I have faith that, eventually, you will understand and ultimately be comfortable with your role. But there are good reasons why I must be coy for the moment.”

“Because, if I knew, I’d be a less effective weapon against — whoever you plan to aim me at?” asked John.

“Precisely.”

John frowned. “I thought you were going to let me stay with Sherlock. He’ll be upset if you take me away.”

Mycroft’s eyes darkened. “Rest assured. I have no intention of taking you away from Sherlock. Ever. And I promise you, I would never, ever put you in the hands of those I mean to turn you against.” Mycroft shuddered. “It’s not a lie when I say I care for you, John. You and your welfare are something I take very seriously.”

Then he stood up. “Let’s forget the tea. We are both procrastinating. I know that what I’m asking you for, this debriefing of your sex life, is a difficult, awkward and humiliating thing. Unfortunately, it’s also quite necessary. So we’d best get it over with. We don’t need to wait for Sherlock, in fact, he might find it easier to complete his assignment if neither of us are around.” 

Mycroft grabbed the newspaper and tucked it under his arm as if were his. “Come along.”

* * *

The town car pulled up just as they left 221B. A tall man in a black suit leapt out of the drivers seat to open the door for them. John climbed in first, sliding over as Mycroft settled in next to him. John expected that Mycroft would talk more about who John was to fight, or maybe what the debriefing would entail, but he relaxed and used the bulk of the time to make a near endless series of short cryptic phone calls. John wasn’t sure if this were yet another manipulation to make him feel small and unimportant, or if Mycroft really were typically this busy.

Finally Mycroft put his phone away and shook open the newspaper he’d stolen. “Did you read the article on page three?” John looked down and saw a picture of an abandoned slave orphanage. The windows were cracked and covered with graffiti — merely names, nothing like the abolitionist screeds John had once marked walls with. 

“No.” John had started to read the article that morning, but then stopped when it became too painful. It was a nostalgia piece about the days when the slaves were homegrown and plentiful. Much as John was glad to know that abolitionism and other factors were causing a crisis, reading about it only served to make him feel more angry and impotent.

“Fifty years ago nearly half of all slaves were born into the institution,” lectured Mycroft. “’Bad seed yields bad fruit,’ they used to say. A criminal will produce nothing but criminals. Best teach them their place before they have a chance to be disruptive. The second and third generation made for good slaves. Much less disruptive. More cooperative. Better long term survival.”

“The children were innocent,” said John, darkly. “Even if they did make better slaves, why should they pay for their parent’s sins? How is that fair.”

“Would it surprise you to hear I agree?” John stared at Mycroft. “More importantly: popular as they were, these second, third and fourth generation slaves were actually a drain on the Crown’s limited resources. The cost to raise a child in an orphanage from weaning to majority was prohibitive. We simply couldn’t make back in sales what they cost in upkeep. And as laws were made raising the age to which a child could be put to work, from five to fifteen, the Crown began losing money on each and every one. Shutting down the orphanages was necessary. It was hoped that owners could raise their own slaves’ children more efficiently and put them to work or sell them when they reached proper age, and thus make back what they put into them.”

“Didn’t work,” said John, with satisfaction.

“No, of course. It simply moved the expense from the Crown to the individual owners, and they had no illusions about their bottom lines. Once chemical birth control became cheap and effective, it was inevitable that the slaveborn class would simply disappear. No work-limiting pregnancies, no dangerous births, no useless children to be watched and trained. No extra mouths to feed or clothe. Nothing but mature slaves at the peak of efficiency year in and year out. Short term it was an economic boon to everyone, but now, thirty years out, the slaves keep ageing and their replacements are fewer and harder to come by.

“And that in turn has lead to the current crisis. Our economy _requires_ slaves. War and conquest are an expensive recruitment tool and we can only make the laws so draconian before ordinary citizens cry foul and become sympathetic to your Cause. The only pocket of potential slaves left is the truly dangerous and unruly. Murderers, political enemies, terrorists like yourself. Those who used to be hanged will now go into slavery to make up for the loss of the slaveborn — and they must be controlled.”

“With my collar.”

“Yes, John. Yes. With your collar. You understand. Internal collars are expensive, John. The better, more useful, more desirable you are, the more attractive that collar will become. The more willing owners will be to shell out the additional expense.”

Before John could think of a response, Mycroft’s phone buzzed and he was back to ordering people around.

* * *

They eventually arrived at an unfriendly looking building on the outskirts of London. It was squat and ugly, built of massive squares of concrete and pocked with small beady windows like pits along its grey surface. The car stopped briefly at a check gate, where a man armed with an assault rifle looked each of them over. A moment later the car descended into an underground parking garage and pulled up to a darkly glazed set of double doors with the words Imperial Guard Headquarters emblazoned in silver. Again the driver leapt out and opened the doors for them.

Mycroft put a light hand on John’s shoulder and guided him in through a lobby and past the suspicious gazes of another set of guards, this time armed with a pistols. Mycroft to fed a security card into a reader before the lift opened. And then they went down. Down. Much further down. Nothing good or above board happened this far under the earth. _Into the oubliette,_ John’s imagination unkindly suggested.

John shuddered and Mycroft’s hand tightened a bit on his shoulder. “Cold?”

“Claustrophobic,” replied John.

“I see. Well, if you cooperate, we shouldn’t have to remain here for very long.” The lift opened to a long concrete corridor, dotted with the occasional soldier in imperial black. One peeled away from the wall to give a stiff salute, then escorted them to one of a series of green painted doors. Inside that was a twelve by twelve by fifteen foot high room, lit harshly with bluish-white fluorescents lights. It was bare except for two office chairs sitting side by side, a long table, and a desk top computer. Cords snaked over the back of the table and across to the wall. John looked up at a darkened rectangle near the ceiling. An observation deck. Empty. There were cameras placed in each corner. This was an interrogation room.

Mycroft pulled the seat out in front of the computer and gestured for John to take it. A browser window to the internet was open to John’s blog taking up half it’s wide screen. The other half was a blank page. 

Mycroft sat down next to John. “Start at the beginning with your clumsy attempt at romancing Sherlock. You may skip details of your shower, but then go on to describe your lovemaking. Be as detailed as possible. Include your emotional state. It is important for us to understand what you were thinking, and above all what it felt like for you.”

John felt his cheeks begin to heat up. He knew this was coming. He could do this.

“A little privacy?” he suggested. “I write better without someone looking over my shoulder.” He half thought that Mycroft would eagerly agree. Mycroft seemed to share a bit of Sherlock’s prudery when it came to sexual matters.

But Mycroft shook his head. “It would go quicker if I were here to coach you, push you past your inhibitions. I will help select the phrasing that will have the most powerful effect. It’s important that this be written just right.”

“Then why don’t you write it?” snapped John. “You don’t really need my input. Make something up.”

“John, heel.” John nearly bit his tongue when the sudden intense pain raced over his skin, then burrowed deep to his bones before finally ending. He gasped a breath the moment it was over.

“None of that attitude now, John. Cooperate. Begin writing as you would a entry to your blog. That should give us a good start.”

John put his fingers on the keyboard and began tapping out his report as if the incident were one of Mycroft’s assignments. He tried to ignore the warmth of Mycroft against his side and back. Pretend that he was alone, at home, and not in some intimidating cell. But the words came out clumsily, hampered by the fact that he knew that Mycroft was reading over his shoulder and judging every word.

“Stop,” said Mycroft after John reached the third paragraph. 

John hissed at the order, but Mycroft ignored his reaction.

“‘I stood just inside his bedroom door wearing only a towel. He told me to undress. I did,’” Mycroft read aloud in a dry voice. “I’m not asking for a military report, John. I want feeling.” He reached over John’s arm and moved the mouse. John’s first blog entry appeared up on the screen. “I want you to write it like that.”

John looked at the entry. _Why You Are Wrong._ He glanced over the paragraphs of over-the-top rhetoric, what he thought once were powerful arguments. Now they looked to his eyes like what a madman would write. The hyperbole. The anger that dripped from every sentence. He could practically see the spittle. “I don’t understand. You want me to rant?”

“No, I want that level of emotion. That language. That’s your gift. Your ability to make your reader truly feel what you felt. Look at those adjectives, those metaphors. They tear at the heart. The subject, the emotions may be different, but I want that same intensity, passion and dedication.”

John tried to wrap his brain around the request for a second, and then it came to him. He jumped in his seat and his face grew fiery. “You want me to write pornography?”

“Yes,” said Mycroft. He leaned back and seemed to dare John notice anything awkward about the situation. “You have the talent, John. I’ve read your emails, your essays, your write up of that Fryling case. You have a natural ability to entertain. You apply that skill to your report here, and you will have those committee members’ attention.”

“You want the committee’s members at attention, is that it?” John knew his face must look like a stop sign. “Will it help your agenda to know that they are masturbating over my experiences as a slave?”

“Absolutely,” said Mycroft. “And since many of them are completely straight, you will need to be quite convincing.”

“You are an awful person,” said John and waited to be punished.

Instead Mycroft laughed. “You aren’t the first to think so. But in this case you can lay the blame squarely at Sherlock’s feet. If he hadn’t been so thorough dismantling my cameras while you were in the shower, I could have simply presented the film to the committee. All you would have had to do was answer a few questions. But he did, I don’t have that film, and so the next best thing is your writing skills.” 

“You are really making an assumption here,” said John. “I’ve never written porn before. What if I’m terrible at it. I can’t do what I can’t do.”

“I really am convinced you have it in you, John. But if you are convinced you can’t, well, then the original plan can be salvaged. I will take you back to my flat, and while I don’t flatter myself to think my performance will provide much titillation, I shall make sure that yours will.”

John drew in a deep breath.

“Is that sufficient motivation?” asked Mycroft. “Shall we start again?”

John let out the breath and said. “Yes.”

* * *

For the next four hours John wrote and rewrote his experience with Mycroft softly praising and ordering him as he went. _No that sentence was too dry, put down how you felt. Your skin, his skin. Your emotions, here, how did you feel? More details. Yes, that word there, beautiful, you really are beautiful. So seductive. You will have them longing to bed you._

John fought back waves of pleasure from his collar as he complied with Mycroft's orders and waves of remembered pleasure as he vividly relived every touch of Sherlock’s hands. His body was confused. Thanks to the collar, his brain was confused as well. He tried to ignore his erection and was thankful that Mycroft’s trousers were slack enough to hide anything that might have developed there. In the end, John was exhausted, sweaty, and intensely sexually frustrated.

But there it was — six thousand words chronicling the experience in exquisite, arousing detail. Mycroft read them over once more, then saved the effort.

“Good job,” said Mycroft, taking the mouse and sending the document to some other place, where who knew who would read it.

John hung his head and covered his crotch with his hands.

“Don’t be ashamed,” said Mycroft, tenderly. “The only shame a slave should ever feel is if he failed his master, and you didn’t fail here. You did better than I could have hoped. Don’t worry about your physical reaction. What you feel when I order you, what you felt at Sherlock’s hands, those are good things. You deserve that pleasure. Accept it, rejoice in it. That pleasure means that you’ve been good. And you’ve been so very, very good for us John, both Sherlock and myself.”

John closed his eyes and without thinking leaned into Mycroft’s warmth. Felt an arm go around his shoulder, soft lips against his forehead. _I’m nothing. I’m no one. I can’t help anyone, but I can help them. My masters._

“Let’s get you home, John. I’m sure Sherlock will be very glad to see you.”

* * *

John saw a pale face in the window as they pulled up to the curb. For just a moment he saw an expression of concern, but by the time John had negotiated the awkward shuffle needed to get out of the car, Sherlock was gone. Much to John’s consternation, Mycroft joined him on the street, keeping a hand on John’s sleeve lest he get it in his head to wander off before Mycroft was well and thoroughly done with him. John waited, staring up at the place he’d come to think of as home while Mycroft murmured a few words to the driver.

Following John’s gaze, Mycroft said, “I see he’s satisfied that I haven’t abused you in his absence. Watch when we come in, he’ll pretend that he never noticed you were gone.” He then gave John a gentle pat to his shoulder. “Let’s go bug him.”

True to Mycroft’s words, Sherlock was lying the couch with a book artfully splayed over his face and his right arm draped dramatically onto the floor. John tightened his lips. Sherlock had _so_ not been sleeping two minutes ago. He didn’t move as John hung up his coat.

Mycroft leaned over and tipped a book off the shelf onto the floor. It hit the hardwood floor with a solid thunk. Sherlock startled.

“Oh you,” he grumbled, pulling the book off. “My report is on the table. Take it and go away.”

Mycroft walked over to fetch a memory stick off the table and weighed it in his hand. “Let me guess: this will read like a thesaurus mating with a medical textbook. Will the committee need a diagram and dictionary to parse your wall of words?”

“On the contrary, I wrote it in crayon, lest your committee have to actually exercise their lardy brains. After all we wouldn’t want that, now would we? Thinking? It would be awfully dangerous to your agenda.”

John watched Mycroft’s hesitation, then the smile that tweaked the corners of his lips. “I doubt anyone on the committee would guess my agenda no matter how hard they thought.” He placed the the flash drive in a pocket. “In any case, your account is largely superfluous. John wrote an absolutely splendid report.”

Sherlock eyed John for a second. “Are you okay?” There was actual concern there. John could tell.

“I’m fine,” said John. “Did you have to write up what we … what we did, too?”

“The price he pays for pulling out the cameras,” said Mycroft. “I did warn him.”

“I will not put myself on display for your committee,” said Sherlock. “I won’t have John on display, either. They can get their own slaves.”

“That’s the plan,” said Mycroft, grinning.

Sherlock’s eyes sharpened. “Any slave can be ordered to warm a bed, but how much more pleasant it is to have one that moans with genuine lust rather than fear. Rather a low blow, wouldn’t you think? Subjecting them with this sort of temptation.”

“We do what we must for the good of the Empire.”

John looked from one Holmes to the other. “Wait a second, you are trying to … to second hand seduce your committee to some hidden agenda using _me?_ ” John sputtered. “That doesn’t make any sense. Wouldn’t have made more sense if you’d picked an attractive woman to use this blasted collar on? I imagine that your committee would much rather imagine being in bed with almost anyone more than a war-scarred middle aged bloke like me.”

“Oh no,” said Sherlock. “Mycroft picked exactly right. If you’d been a beautiful but unknown woman, the committee would be instantly suspicious. It would be easy for Mycroft to arrange for a loyal minion to play-act the part of a slave. Cobbling up the paperwork would be even easier — as you know yourself. But you, John, are famous. You are also zealous, incorruptible, and to all reports heterosexual. You’d never willingly subject yourself my touch, nor would you ever agree with Mycroft’s agenda. Mycroft can’t fake your reactions and they know that.

“The implications are unavoidable,” Sherlock went on. “ If someone like _you_ can be rendered into a perfect bedmate through the conditioning of a collar, imagine what effect it will have on the maid.”

The words sank in, battering John’s thoughts like hail. This was the reason for the pornographic report. _If I can’t resist Mycroft, no one can…._

“They won’t want you, personally,” said Mycroft said soothingly. “Don’t be alarmed.”

“But they _will_ want the power I have over you, John. I imagine they’d overlook a lot of things to get it. Am I wrong?”

“I will neither confirm nor deny that,” said Mycroft, smugly.

“So that’s who I’m a weapon against? These are your enemy? This committee?” said John, his voice rising incredulously. “Aren’t they on your side?”

“Of course, they are on my side,” said Mycroft. “Sometimes my side is stubborn needs a bit of persuading before they see the light.”

Sherlock lay back, lifted the book off his chest, and replaced it on his face. “Well, not my problem and already bored of it. You have what you wanted. Tootle-loo. Begone.” He wiggled his fingers in Mycroft’s direction.

“Yes, I must go,” said Mycroft, growing serious. “But first: I have one last assignment for the two of you. This Saturday, I’ve arranged a party to show John and his collar off. I know it’s not much time to prepare, but I had really expected to make faster progress with John than we have. In any case, it’s booked, invitations have been sent out long ago, so we’ll simply have to deal with it.

“It will be a formal affair, Anthea will see that you both have appropriate attire. Members of the committee and many of the most prominent slave owners will be in attendance, in addition there will be several Lords and a Dame. It is absolutely _vital_ , Sherlock, that John be on his best behaviour at this party, therefore I expect you to be liberal with both your orders and your punishments. And while you are at it, try to be gracious and accommodating yourself.”

“What? No!” said Sherlock, pulling the book off his face and glowering. “You know I detest these type of people. Forget it. Take John if you must, but leave me out of your dreary affairs.”

“I’ll be far too busy hosting the event to watch after John. Really, Sherlock, I insist. I’ve let you get away with an enormous amount, but on this I have to be firm. Either you be his master, or I shall have to take John right now and give him to one of my employees who I can trust will follow my instructions to the letter. There is barely enough time to retrain John to a new master, but if you force me to, I will.”

Sherlock tossed the book away and swung his feet off the couch so that he sat up. “I really loathe what you are doing to me, Mycroft. I’m not one of your peons and I utterly detest when you treat me like one.”

“Cooperate, Sherlock, be gracious, be ruthless, and if this party is a success, I promise I’ll transfer my ownership of John to you. He will be yours completely,” said Mycroft. “And I will be out of your lives, except for social calls.”

Sherlock stared fiercely up at Mycroft. “Very well. But this is the last of it Mycroft. The moment that party is over, I want full ownership, and I will train John how _I_ want. Don’t expect to be able to borrow him back whenever your agenda needs a convenient slave.”

“Absolutely,” said Mycroft. “Yours and yours alone.” He looked John’s way and his eyes added _up to a point_ loud and clear. John knew Mycroft wouldn’t hesitate to intervene if he thought John might hurt Sherlock in any way. For his part, John couldn’t imagine hurting Sherlock. Even if he weren’t terrified of what Mycroft would do, he couldn’t imagine living without Sherlock anymore. Now that the Cause was gone, Sherlock was his anchor, the frame that he built all his expectations around. He trusted Sherlock. He loved him.

“I know I’m asking for a lot,” said Mycroft, turning back to Sherlock. “I have every expectation that this will be an extremely humiliating experience for John, so the two of us must give him the structure he needs to not to let his temper flare. Don’t abandon him, Sherlock, not for a second. Don’t let him wonder what he should do or how he should act. Trust that the pleasure of the collar will balance out any mental anguish caused by his degradation. I will do what I can between my hosting duties, but this will mostly lie on you, Sherlock. Can I trust that you won’t mess it up?”

“Yes. If I can trust that your guests can keep their hands off of John and remember that he’s my slave and not theirs. I won’t have them ordering him around.”

“They will be warned. But in turn, you must demonstrate that you’d rule John the way they would rule a slave like him. Unless they ask for John to do something that would cause him physical injury, I insist you cooperate. His feelings are not an issue. After all, this is a practical demonstration of his subservience.”

 _Oh christ,_ thought John, but he said nothing.

“This is monstrous,” said Sherlock for him. “You know that.”

“It is one night. And you know what’s at stake.”

Sherlock breathed loudly. “Okay, enough. Go. You’ve more than made your point.” 

Mycroft nodded. He turned to John, “Try not to dwell too much on this, John. It’s not your place to feel shame or worry or anticipation. Trust me, I have it all in hand. The only thing you need to do is obey, quickly and without question, to be pleasing and enjoy your collar’s rewards, and all will be well for you, I promise.”

With that, he finally left.

* * *

“So,” said John an hour later, after muddling his painful way through another 100 words on his blog. He’d felt like he’d written quite enough for one day, but Sherlock was insistent that his report didn’t count. “So, I’m a weapon against some committee. Funny he should need a weapon against his own side.” 

John couldn’t imagine the Cause functioning if anyone backstabbed and manipulated the inner circle the way Mycroft did to his committee. Thankfully, a man like Mycroft would never have made it past the outermost, disposable ring, if he even got that far. Gaboriau didn’t abide by any political jockeying or gamesmanship and he set a high standard for loyalty, trust, and shared belief, without those, the Cause would have been routed out and destroyed long ago. The only time John could remember when anyone acted on an independent agenda was when Duncan betrayed his group to the Imperialist Guard.

The thought of Mycroft’s side being so disorganised and self-destructive brought him a kind of cruel happiness. “Needing me as a weapon,” John mused. “That can’t be good.”

“Oh, it’s nothing that dramatic. Just the curse of brilliance,” said Sherlock from the armchair. “You are constantly surrounded by idiots who can’t possibly do your job, but nonetheless have power over you. It’s why I choose to work alone, John. You have no idea the frustration it is to have someone completely oblivious to reasoning constantly getting in the way of what you need to do.”

John crossed his arms and glowered. “Right. I can’t fathom what that would be like, no.”

“Of course not — what?” Sherlock regarded John with a suddenly hurt expression. “John, I do listen to you. I’m not oblivious to your needs at all. I’ve read your rants, listened to your pleas. But sometimes you are simply wrong.”

He stood up and walked over to John, putting an hand on his shoulder as if to comfort him. It reminded him uncomfortably of what Mycroft would do if he felt John needed soothing.

“You are heaps better off as my slave than you were as an international terrorist. You were hours away from committing cold blooded murder when Mycroft picked you up. Your life span was numbered in weeks at most. Your efforts to thwart slavery were by in large futile. No, much as you hate it, you have done more good for society as my assistant, saving lives, solving problems, than you ever did with your Cause. You even helped foil a slavery ring. That should give you some cheer.”

It did, and he did like helping Sherlock, but thinking about the Cause reminded him of why he’d joined in the first place. “I can’t agree,” John said, shaking his head. “Being someone’s slave is never better than being a free man.”

“Well, of course,” said Sherlock exasperated. “Being ‘someone’s’ slave would be horrible. But I’m not ‘someone’, John, and you were never a free man. You have a habit of giving your free will away. First to the military, then to your capricious dictates of your Cause, and now to me. Of all your masters I’m by far the best. I’m certainly the only one who has seen you as anything other than a tool.”

“Well, that’s ironic, given that now I have no more rights than a sex-toy,” said John, bitterly.

“If it makes it any easier,” said Sherlock, pulling his hand away. “I won’t force you to have sex with me again.”

“What?” John was genuinely stunned.

“I know what we did yesterday was not your choice. Although I enjoyed it greatly, I’ve been celibate the majority of my life. I will survive without that service.”

“So… no more sex,” John felt his groin twinge with pent up tension.

“Unless you request it.”

“If I ask, you’ll say yes?” His cock remembered the long teasing session with Mycroft. He’d not wanted to come then, but now the yearning to relive those feelings — to have Sherlock touch him and make him come, to have Sherlock look at him the way he had when they were in bed together, as if John were the most exciting, wonderful thing he’d ever seen — was nearly overwhelming. Some low, unthinking, irrational part of John desperately wanted that, all of that, again. Now.

“If I’m not otherwise occupied, very likely yes.” Sherlock’s eyes focused on him with a startling intensity. John felt naked. “Though if I do agree, it will be on my terms. The way it was last time. You’ll follow my orders. Are you still tempted?”

John involuntarily sucked in a breath, remembering the combination of the collars bliss and overwhelming sexual pleasure. 

“Ah, I see,” Sherlock said, in a low voice. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? The collar makes it that much better. Now that you’ve tasted it, sex would be lacking without it. Are you already addicted? Would you like me to order you now?”

 _Yes._ “No!” John found himself shouting. He regretted it immediately because part of him knew he couldn’t change his mind. Not without admitting weakness. Not without admitting the collar had defeated him.

“Very well, I can hold out as long as you can,” said Sherlock, seemingly amused by his reaction. And the moment was too intense to bear. John abruptly decided the lab needed dusting and stomped away as quickly as his aching leg and heavy groin would let him.

* * *

John relieved himself some minutes later by masturbating into the toilet. He was pretty sure Sherlock knew exactly what he was doing, but if he objected, he didn’t act on it. Once John was certain he wouldn’t be interrupted, he set his mind resolutely on a memory of a one night stand he’d had four months back. She’d been curvy and blonde and utterly the opposite of Sherlock. It didn’t take long for his hand to find just the right pressure and stroke speed to tip his already primed body over the top. And then it was done. His balls felt lighter and his chest breathed easier, but a lingering sense of disappointment weighed on him.

His collar stayed silent the entire time. John had half-hoped it would somehow be triggered when he came, but there was nothing. Without Sherlock’s order there never would be anything. John found that he missed that wave of blissful happiness every bit as much as he missed arousal of having another person touching him. Sherlock had been right, the act felt hollow compared to what he’d felt yesterday. The collar had given sex an extra depth beyond simple orgasm. He almost wished that Sherlock had stopped him and ordered him to bed instead.

But he couldn’t ask for it. He couldn’t. No matter how much he wanted it. Never.

And that made him tense in an entirely different way.

It certainly didn’t help that Mycroft’s “party” was hanging over him. In less than 48 hours he’d be dressed and trotted out before his arch enemies, to be gawked at, gloated over, played with. He had no idea what the people at that event would expect in the way of a demonstration, but he was pretty sure that he wouldn’t like it. These were the people who had lost the most when he and the Cause had disrupted the flow of slaves through the system. They’d want their pound of flesh. And the only one standing between him and their wrath was Sherlock’s somewhat haphazard sense of decency.

John shuddered and leaned over the sink, letting the solid, cool feeling of the porcelain under his palms anchor him back in the now.

“John,” came Sherlock’s voice through the door. “If you are quite finished, I need your assistance up in the lab.”

John straightened up and rubbed his face. Then went to face the afternoon.

* * *

Maybe Sherlock did understand John’s needs after all, or maybe it was just luck that Sherlock suddenly decided that it was a good day for John to learn some forensic chemistry, but he kept John busy and distracted the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening. As a teacher, Sherlock was difficult and demanding. He yelled when John hesitated, ranted when John slipped up, and demeaned his intelligence when John couldn’t recite back some complicated set of steps. 

It was all more difficult because of the way Sherlock instructed him. Gone were the tentative requests and suggestions. Sherlock ordered John with the barking tone of a drill sergeant. His collar triggered so frequently that John found he needed to sit down, lest he accidentally lose balance and pour acid on himself. The bliss messed with his concentration, making it hard to parse Sherlock’s rapid prattle and remember what he was supposed to be doing. If Sherlock realised this, he didn’t let it on.

When John got everything correct, Sherlock simply muttered, “finally,” and moved on to the next procedure, always moving with a manic franticness, as if a person’s life depended on what they did that minute. It was exhausting. It was terrifying. It was utterly joyous.

John was grateful. This was exactly what he needed. There was no time to worry about anything. Fears about the Cause, about his sex life, about the upcoming party were all pushed out of his mind. For all of Sherlock’s brusque impatience and insults, John couldn’t help but love learning something new and practical. Even better, it seemed obvious that Sherlock really did intend to keep him and use him as part of his work. He wore a sense of security and belonging like a blanket.

It was close to midnight when Sherlock abruptly called it quits. “Wash up, pack it all away, and then you can go to bed.” He then went down to the sitting room to play his violin.

John didn’t question the sleeping arrangements when he crawled into bed. He was too tired to do more than just roll himself in the blanket Sherlock had given him, face the wall, and sleep. 

He roused what seemed to be a few seconds later, but from the darkness and quiet was more likely an hour or two, when Sherlock climbed into bed beside him. He didn’t say anything as Sherlock rolled himself into a comfortable position. Instead he began to fall back to sleep.

Then he felt a gentle hand touch his hair. It was a tentative touch, ticklishly light, smoothing the short hair next to his temple. By the angle and the way the bed dipped and the warmth at his back, John knew that Sherlock was propped up on an elbow looking down on him in the wan street light coming through the window. He heard the soft sound of Sherlock’s breath. A barely voiced sigh.

 _Is he going to change his mind?_ John wondered. _Will he wake me in a second and demand sex?_ His groin began to fill with sleepy arousal. _He could. I couldn’t stop him._

But Sherlock merely stroked the hair on the side of his head again. Then lay back. John felt his hand resting on his hip, but it was just the relaxed grip of someone snuggling to sleep. “It was a long, difficult day,” Sherlock said. “But it’s done. Good night, John.”

“Good night,” John replied.


	10. Chapter 10

As promised, Anthea arrived at noon, bringing with her two other goons and a massive assortment of garment bags and boxes of various sizes. Sherlock had them placed in the bedroom. He then meticulously removed each item, inspected it and laid it out on the bed while Anthea and her companions sat around the living room and quietly waited. 

John was torn between wondering if he should play host to the visitors (it seemed wrong to just leave them bored and unattended) or if he should stick by Sherlock in case he was needed to put the clothes away. He chose to stay by Sherlock, in part because these were _Mycroft’s_ people and he owed them less than nothing, but mostly because he was achingly curious as to what he was supposed to wear for this party.

The first thing Sherlock pulled out was a single breasted tailcoat in a deep grey. The lapels were satin, the buttons were silver embossed with lions heads. It came with an off-white waistcoat with a vaguely floral pattern subtly stitched in with matching thread. The shirt, by contrast, was plain white and unremarkable. A silk cravat and sleek, thin, nearly invisibly pinstriped trousers completed the main outfit. From an assortment of smaller boxes, Sherlock pulled out myriad of accessories: a tall hat, a grey linen handkerchief, a watch on a broad silver chain, monogrammed cufflinks, shiny black shoes, a diamond lapel pin, socks, gloves. 

When he had finished there were only three boxes left unopened.

John began to worry. He hadn’t really expected to be dressed as beautifully as Sherlock, but he had hoped that he would be wearing something that wouldn’t call attention to himself and allow him to blend in and not be seen. A servants uniform or just a plain tux. He didn’t see how that was possible given the sizes of the remaining boxes. Perhaps, he thought, he was supposed to wear his ordinary street wear.

After one last bit of fussing with his own outfit, Sherlock set to opening up John’s. The largest box contained a pair of shoes. They were plain black penny loafers; judging from the designer label, probably every bit as expensive as Sherlock’s shoes. Tucked offhandedly into the same box were a pair of nondescript nylon socks. John allowed himself to breathe a little. He’d likely look woefully underdressed for the party, but at least he wouldn’t look like he’d been plucked from the tenements. He’d probably be more comfortable in business wear anyway.

The next box took his breath away again. At first he couldn’t quite make sense of what he was seeing. Nestled in the crepe paper was what appeared to be a pair of floppy rags, one slightly larger than the other, matching black and made of a sheer clingy cotton blend. When Sherlock laid them out, the first turned out to be a barely opaque vest while the other resolved into something more akin to long underwear than anything John would feel comfortable wearing on the street.

Sherlock finished inspecting the strange outfit and finally opened up the last box: a nearly flat packet barely larger than John’s hand. John was resigned to it being another collar or some other bit of slave jewellery, but instead, to his confused dismay, it contained a strange black pouch attached to a series of narrow straps. A clutch? No. When Sherlock lifted it up John’s face went red. This was what Mycroft considered suitable underwear. It would contain his privates but nothing more. Sherlock poked and tested the material. With the degree to which the thin fabric stretched, John wasn’t even sure it would really hide anything.

It seemed that John wouldn’t just be underdressed, he’d be practically nude. He gawped and tried not to panic.

Sherlock let out a soft sigh. “Go ahead and say it if you must.”

“Please tell me there is more coming,” blurted John. “I can’t go out in public wearing that. It’s indecent.”

“I’m afraid this is it,” said Sherlock. “But there will be very little ‘public’. We’ll doubtless be escorted from curb side to the estate, and the party itself will be far away from common eyes.” As he said that, he frowned and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

John’s mind was more on the eyes at the party than those of the public and he didn’t find the reassurance much help. “Couldn’t I wear my normal clothes instead? Please?” John felt desperation begin to claw at him.

Sherlock shook his head sharply. “Absolutely not. Don’t even joke about it!” he snapped, though John had not been joking. “This is our way to get out of this whole wretched business and back to normal. But we have to be careful. If Mycroft doesn’t get what he wants out of this party, we could be at this for months while he tries to repair the damage. He may even take you from me. Give you to someone _not me_ to train and use until you are finally shaped into what he needs.” John would have found Sherlock’s horrified expression comical if the situation hadn’t been so serious. “Surely you don’t want that!”

“Of course, not,” said John.

“Then resign yourself to the fact that tonight will be horrid. For you. For me. Even for Mycroft, though I dare say that might be the silver lining.” Sherlock put his hands on John’s shoulders as if to steady him. “To be blunt: These people _hate_ you, John. Not just mildly dislike but full on frothing _hate._ They will want to see you humbled. They will _want_ you trembling and ashamed and ground under their heels. If we don’t control the situation and take the edge off their vengeful lusts, then they _will_ insist you do things that neither you nor I are prepared to endure. The better you gird yourself for humiliation the easier tonight will be.”

“Christ,” muttered John. He had no doubt Sherlock was right.

“So tap into your apparently endless tolerance for abuse. You’ll look silly, but these clothes should be comfortable — perhaps a bit chilly. And they will give us a reasonable excuse not to strip you completely naked. And, please, from now on be very careful what you say when others may be listening in.” 

John became aware again of Mycroft’s minions lounging around just down the short hall.

“Don’t give these people any more ammunition to destroy you. Please.” The last word was a whisper. A plea.

“Okay, I get it. I’ll wear the clothes. I’ll cooperate. It’s only one night.”

“Yes, it really is only one night, John. Hold onto that. You’ve been through worse.”

And that was true as well, but he didn’t want to think too hard about that, lest he add a flashback to his already barely tenable situation. But his interrogation in Afghanistan was purely involuntary. Here he was being asked to actively assist the enemy. It was hard not to dwell on it.

Anthea appeared at the door, “Ahem.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, looking annoyed for a brief second before cryptic understanding washing over his features.

“We need to know if they will fit him. Mr. Holmes is usually pretty good about sizes but…” she shrugged.

John looked from Anthea to Sherlock and back. 

“Well,” said Sherlock. “You heard her. Put it on. We need to test the size.” Anthea didn’t move, what’s more the two other goons had decided to crowd into the hall behind her to see what was up.

John hesitated. “What, with them watching?”

Sherlock grimaced. “John, heel.”

John was so shocked and unprepared for the punishment he was nearly knocked down by it. One of the goons in the back started softly laughing. John’s face went white with rage, but before he could do or say anything, Sherlock growled, “Do you need another?”

John tightened his lips and began pulling off his clothes. He did it as quickly and efficiently as he could, with no attempt to make it seductive or entertaining. He tried to ignore the fact that he was being stared at. In his mind he fetched back the memory of undressing in locker rooms. It actually did give him quite a bit of solace.

“Smile, John,” ordered Sherlock, just to be an arse.

John forced his lips up in something that approached a grin. Thankfully, it was close enough to compliance for the collar to reward him and he was able to ride the wave of happiness through the rest of his undressing. He was then given another dose of the collar which made him almost giddy. 

Unfortunately, he made the mistake of looking Anthea’s way. She was making a very poor show of hiding a gleeful smile. The two in the back weren’t even trying to hide their reactions. One looked clearly disgusted, the other seemed to think he was hilarious. God, he did _not_ need that. His face turned hot with embarrassment. The urge to punch the smug off their faces took physical effort to quell.

“Never mind them,” said Sherlock. “Pay attention to what you are doing. Put the clothes on.”

It wasn’t easy. John negotiated the pouch first. It snuggly cupped his groin, but just as he suspected, did little to support or disguise his masculine parts. Anthea let out a bright, tinkling snigger that her splayed fingers did nothing to muffle. “Wow,” uttered the troll behind her. The third managed to look like he’d stepped in a cow patty.

John gritted his teeth and glared at them. “Listen, you were the ones who —!” John began.

“John, _heel!”_ Sherlock snapped impatiently. “Pay attention to me, not them. What they think or don’t think is unimportant. You aren’t their slave, you are mine. Care about me!”

John’s muscles bunched with tension, but he turned himself away from his audience and concentrated on Sherlock. His collar kicked in which helped. He sat on the bed, with his shoulders turned away from the door, he began to work the leggings up his body. The fabric was tight and fought his leg hair the entire way, yanking it out of its normal lie. John hissed.

“Perhaps I should have you shave,” Sherlock murmured, mostly to himself. John took that as warning to speed it up and not make anymore fuss. He stood and pulled the waist up over his pouch, glancing at the mirror as he did so. And now he looked like poor excuse for a wrestler. The cloth showed every muscle and bulge and love handle. He was thankful he was on the trim end of his natural weight range, but this was not an outfit that flattered anyone but the very fittest, which he was not. The vest went on easier, pulled over the tight plains of his abs and resting across the tops of his hipbones. A wide U of his chest was left bare and his nipples were sharply delineated by the thin fabric.

Sherlock was right. It was chilly but comfortable. Moreover, despite the flimsiness and cut, he did feel better than when he’d been bare. At least he looked athletic rather than clownish. This could pass as some sort of yoga outfit, perhaps.

“Well,” said Sherlock said after a long appraising look. “You can inform Mycroft that once again his tailor’s eye was correct.”

“He looks quite sexy,” said Althea. “Nice bum.” John found himself surprisingly flattered.

“Yes,” Sherlock mused. “Suggestive without looking too obviously like he’s escaped from an S and M dungeon. As I imagine was the intent. This sexual obsession is rather unbecoming even of Mycroft. Let’s hope it’s just a passing fancy.” Despite the lightness of his words, Sherlock’s expression was dark, as though he really didn’t fancy other people looking at John that way. “Well, I suppose we should get him used to the attention before we feed him to the jackals. Shall I send him around the block, do you think?”

Anthea touched her chin. “Yes, I think that would be right. Are there enough people out and about to make it worth it?”

John froze in horror. _Wait, does he mean — What the hell happened to “very little public eyes?”_

Sherlock glanced outside. “There appear to be plenty.”

“Sherlock, don’t —“ John pleaded. There were people he _knew_ out there.

“Heel, John!”

John winced and bit back a scream.

“Shoes on,” said Sherlock, hardly skipping a beat. “Let’s take a trot around the neighbourhood. Maybe get a cup of coffee?” John didn’t dare respond. Not with Sherlock in this dangerous mood, but he hoped desperately that Sherlock would change his mind. Sherlock didn’t wait for an answer. Instead he pulled open the top drawer of the bedside chest and pulled out the collar that Mycroft had given them a month before. “Here, this will help.”

John held still while he fastened it around his throat. The metal felt cold. He half expected to feel needles sinking into his spine. Sherlock ran his finger along the inside of the collar, then tugged it until it lay snuggly under his adam’s apple.

“There you go,” said Sherlock with some satisfaction. “You are free to make a fool of yourself. No one will hold you to the standards of freeman behaviour or decorum. No one will think you willingly chose your outfit.”

 _No, they will just think I did something to deserve wearing it,_ John didn’t say. There was no point. It was clear that Sherlock wasn’t going to change his mind.

Instead, John worked to channel the attitude he’d had when Sherlock tried to punish him with tethering. He’d gotten himself into a space where he didn’t give a fuck what Sherlock saw or didn’t see, and everything had gone swimmingly after that. How had he put it? Oh yes. His body was a gift to mankind and his neighbours were damn well privileged to see his tights-covered arse. Perhaps they’d be distracted enough by his bulging groin that they wouldn’t even notice the collar.

“There you go,” said Sherlock approvingly, as they descended the stairs. “Keep that chin up.”

John did. He kept his chin up and his shoulders back and his eyes forward. And though every eye on the street was instantly welded to him as he walked down the pavement, he kept up a confident mantra. He _ruled_ this outfit. Those blokes couldn’t pull this off half as well. Oh shit, there was the neighbour. Never mind. He didn’t care.

“Not too cocky,” warned Sherlock, leaning into his ear. “Be demure. If you can manage ashamed without falling apart do so.”

_Goddamn it. Why did Sherlock have to make it harder than it already was?_

With effort, John lowered his eyes in the closest approximation of demure he thought he could handle. The advantage was that he no longer saw the stares. That left only the sounds to worry about, and there were unfortunately plenty of those. Someone John didn’t see lit into raucous laughter. Someone else called out, “Fucking poof, put on some clothes!”

John gritted his teeth and tried to shut it all out. “It’s good,” whispered Sherlock. “We want them to tease you. If the people at the party are satisfied with teasing that will be the best possible outcome.”

John was beginning to see where Sherlock was getting with this, but it didn’t make him hate Sherlock any less. Sure this made perfect logical sense to _him_. It was practice. Terrible, awful practice. Practice in humiliation and grovelling and feeling like shit.

Sherlock wouldn’t have to live with the results of this. Every time John glanced up, he recognised people from the store where he shopped, from the launderette where he washed their clothes. The patrons of the coffee shop were regulars that John had seen before and would likely see again. People he’d made polite conversation with. They’d never treat him the same way again.

As Sherlock and John made their way to the queue to order, the noise in the shop grew louder. Each exclamation of surprise, or shock, or in some instances anger, at seeing him with a collar seemed to stab his gut with physical pain. John’s confidence crumbled under the weight of their disgust and derision.

He hadn’t realised how much grace he’d lived under the last month. He really was a slave now. And for all this, the party promised to be even worse.

 _Maybe it would be best if I just died,_ John thought as he shuffled forward in line. His eyes were kept locked on the back of Sherlock’s coat and he tried to contain his shivers. _Maybe if I provoke them enough, they’ll just kill me and have all this be done with._ It was the first time since this whole ordeal started that he even considered that option.

But even now, he really didn’t want to die. As long as he lived there was hope. John wasn’t religious enough to believe there was anything after he died, and the idea of his existence ending terrified him more than any humiliation.

Sherlock seemed to be oblivious to everything. That is until John had walked a bit too close to one patron and the man suddenly spit at him.

It was so sudden, John wasn’t expecting it. The man had just turned away from the counter and had locked eyes with John for the briefest of seconds. John had shuffled forward the way he had been doing for the last few minutes. He saw the man’s eyes dart down, then up, the visceral disgust on his face, then the way his mouth puckered. Instinct had him dodging before his brain caught up to what was about to happen. The next moment a wad of spittle sped harmlessly past John’s side.

In a flash Sherlock was on the spitter, hand fisted in his shirt, pulling him up from his chair. “Be glad you missed — if his outfit were dirtied, you’d have far worse than me breathing down your throat.” The man looked petrified and John felt smug.

“Hey!” shouted one of the baristas, “None of that in here. Get out. Go on!”

Sherlock snapped his fingers and headed back out the door without the coffee, which was a relief. To John’s misery they continued onward making a rough loop around the neighbourhood before returning back to 221B. It was more of the same as they past Tescos and the dry cleaner. Looks, sniggers, eyes averted not so much from respect but disgust. John had never felt so dirty or degraded before.

 _This is what slaves feel like,_ he thought to himself. He’d been spoiled. For all the restrictions he’d had, for all the orders and painful punishments, he’d never really felt the weight of his class before this. There’d always been a veneer of dignity.

On the bright side, when they reached the flat, Anthea’s car was no longer parked right out in front. John barely noticed at first. The relief at being back indoors was too enormous to consider anything else. John braced himself against the stair railing and wiped the frozen sweat from his brow with the palm of his hand. The warmth of the building was lovely.

“There,” said Sherlock lightly, as he mounted the stairs, a little jump to his step. “That wasn’t too bad.”

 _Easy for you to say,_ John didn’t reply back. When they reached the flat, it became obvious that their visitors had left while they were out walking the neighbourhood. Their coats were no longer on the rack and the flat was quiet. Just as well. John sighed out his relief.

“Get out of those things before they tear or stain,” Sherlock ordered. “And fix us some tea, would you, John? We’ve a few more hours before they’ll be back and I have every intention of putting this all out of my mind until then.” He sat down on the sofa. “That is unless you think you need more practice.”

“More practice?” asked John, his voice growing scathing. “Practice being humiliated and sworn at and _spit_ at? No, thank you. I don’t think so.”

“Practice for keeping your temper,” said Sherlock. “Which you did, though it seemed close for a moment. Which is why I ask, is that enough? We can do some shopping if you think that would help.”

“No,” said John hastily. “I don’t think I need more help. I’m sure I’ll cope just fine.”

“Well, then,” said Sherlock, blithely ignoring John’s tone. “Tea. If you want to watch some telly, I’m not adverse.”

That’s just what they did. Sherlock drank tea and John watched some sort of contest that involved a lot of young people acting very silly. John couldn’t imagine volunteering to look so ridiculous. Why would anyone sell something as precious as their dignity and image so cheaply. If John’s were still his to keep, he’d guard it like the Royal Treasury.

* * *

Mycroft came far too soon for John’s preferences, walking up the steps with a silver tipped cane instead of his customary umbrella. John had been expecting him to be dressed as lavishly as Sherlock, but was surprised to see that his ensemble was much less showy. Well then, that made sense, didn’t it? Sherlock and John were to be the focal point of the evening. Mycroft would stand in the back and shake hands and make deals, subtle as a snake.

“No cameras in the buttons or mikes tucked into the seams,” said Sherlock, emerging from his room while fussing with the handkerchief to get it to lay properly. “Rather unexpected. I was sure that you’d want to monitor our behaviour in some insidiously intrusive way.”

“What would be the point? You’d simply find them,” Mycroft drawled. “I couldn’t have you damaging the clothes in the process of disabling the devices. Think of the expense report.”

“Cameras in the room then,” said Sherlock. It wasn’t a question.

“Absolutely. And I’m sure if you set your mind to it, you could find them — but don’t. In addition, you may recognise your servers and waitstaff, but please try not to call attention to it.” He looked at John. “You will be watched at all times — if anything goes amiss, I will be there quickly. I won’t let things go too far.”

John glared.

“None of that,” Mycroft’s voice lowered. The threat was tangible. “I need you to be polite, respectful, and above all seductive.”

“Seductive?” Sherlock was right about his mind being in the gutter. For a moment John tried to wrap his mind around chatting up a bunch of wealthy old slave owners who hated his guts. He couldn’t see how anything good could come out of this plan. It was dangerous and awful, bizarre and crass. 

“Not sexually seductive,” Mycroft clarified. “We already have that ground covered in your report. But don’t underestimate the allure of a perfect slave: one who will do all he can do, be all he can be for his master. That’s the holy grail of this business. Be that grail for me, John, will you? Many wealthy and important slave owners will enter this party hating you to their very cores. I want them leaving the party _wanting_ you for themselves.”

“I think you might be overestimating my acting abilities, sir,” said John, stiffly.

Mycroft just smiled. “I don’t think it will be as difficult as you imagine. The collar will do all the hard work. You’ve just not to fight it.”

John stiffened harder at the thought.

Mycroft stared at him for a moment longer, then seemed to come to a decision. “John will ride with me, Sherlock. Anthea will be by soon to pick you up. Please don’t give her a hard time.”

“I’d rather stay with John,” said Sherlock.

“I’m sure you would. But there are things he and I need to discuss in private. Don’t be too paranoid, it’s nothing to do with you.” Mycroft’s smile disappeared and he looked earnest. “He’s still primarily mine…. For a few hours at least.”

* * *

John crossed his arms over his chest as he headed out to the waiting car. The sun was almost down and there was a stiff breeze blowing right through his skimpy outfit. Mycroft waited until he’d climbed into the back of the car before following to sit beside him. Then, once the doors were closed he pulled John close.

“I’m sorry about the chill. I’ll have the driver heat the car.”

They pulled away. Past Mycroft’s shoulder, through the tinted glass, John could see Sherlock staring after them. His expression was hard and determined and perhaps just a bit frightened. Then he was out of sight and John was alone with Mycroft.

“Missing him already? You’ll see him soon.” Mycroft gave him one last squeeze and let him go. “There, the seats are heating, you should be warm enough. We have something to discuss.”

“So you said,” said John. “Sir,” he belatedly appended.

Mycroft touched John’s chin and made sure that he was looking him in the eye. “Please be careful. Both Sherlock and I have tolerated insolence from you, but the people at this party won’t. The first thing they will look for is if you seem defiant in any way. We can’t have that.”

 _You can’t have that,_ thought John. _This isn’t my fight._

Mycroft frowned, then leaned forward to retrieve a folder from the pocket in the seat in front. “I know it must be difficult for you to give into your enemy, even in order to ward off the threat from greater enemies. Your black and white sense of morality has been your backbone for many years. Asking you to put that aside is, in a real sense, asking you to put aside coping mechanisms that you rely on to keep your sanity. Without your moral compass, you are lost. You have no identity anymore.”

Once more John was terrified by how perceptive Mycroft was. He shuddered even though with the seat warmed, it wasn’t actually cold.

“Instilling a new moral compass will take too long. But it will happen. One day, John, you will realise there are gradations of evil, shades of grey. You’ll see that sometimes it’s not at all clear what good and bad really are and you just have to muddle through it case by case. Once you’ve achieved that, your slavery will not be nearly as much of a burden to you. But that is the future.”

John didn’t really believe Mycroft but he nodded and said, “Yes, sir,” because that’s what Mycroft seemed to expect.

“For now, I need to give you a more tangible goal, something you can wrap your mind around and focus on.” He passed John the file. “Open it.”

John flipped the file open and jumped in his seat. Inside was a picture of his sister. Harry looked older and more careworn than she had when he’d last seen her. There was more grey in her hair. The style was shorter and rougher. Her eyes were rimmed with red. It took him a second to realise that the picture was an arrest photo. He flipped past it to the police report. Drink driving. He swore under his breath.

“Keep going,” Mycroft urged. The page past that one was apparently her banking records. In the last few months Harry had amassed a frightening amount of debt. John bit his lip. The next page made the reason for the debt clear. She’d been sacked some eight months ago.

“She’s in a spiral,” said Mycroft. “For a while her wife Clara was supporting her, but they separated five months ago, due to the drinking. As of yet Harry has managed, barely, to make her minimum payments, largely by selling off her jewellery and more valuable items. But she won’t be able to do so indefinitely. Nor will she be able to get a new job while she continues to drink like this. And yet all the stress has driven her to drink more. She’s destined to default sooner than later, and when she does, with that conviction on her record, she _will_ be put in a collar.”

John swallowed. If he’d been there for her — if he’d paid any attention to what was going on with her…. But he hadn’t even thought about her for two years. Longer really. Even when he was in Afghanistan, he’d had too much on his plate to worry about her. Oh, hell, she was an adult. She was in a relationship. She should have been able to take care of herself! Why hadn’t she stayed away from the booze? She knew she couldn’t handle it!

“I’m not just showing you this to torment you,” said Mycroft. “There’s a way out for her. _If_ you cooperate.”

“How?” asked John, his heart racing.

“I can sponsor her in a rehab facility. I can see that she finds employment once she finishes the program. And I can even help to erase some of her debt. But I won’t do it for free. I need this party to go well. You can’t behave yourself for me. I’m not sure if you can for Sherlock, either. Asking you to behave for your own good is completely futile. But you can for her. Give you someone to save and you can do anything. Isn’t that right?”

John stared at the file. “Yes, sir,” he said, numbly. Then he looked up at Mycroft. “Why? Why would you save her from slavery. I would think you’d want people like her to be slaves. The crown needs more slaves, is what the paper says. Isn’t making them your whole focus?”

Mycroft laughed. “Oh, John generating more slaves isn’t even a tiny part of my focus. What I want is what I’ve always wanted: what is best for my country. If it means you being stripped, collared, and trotted out like a prized pony, so be it. If it means that Harry walks away free, sober, and employed, even better.”

John frowned. “I don’t understand you, sir,” he said finally.

“Almost no one does,” Mycroft replied back in a way that made it seem as though he preferred it that way.

* * *

The party was held at the famous Maiwand Hall, just north of London. John got an eyeful of a lavish estate as they drove though acres of lawn up a gentle hill. He glimpsed a vineyard and various gardens off to the sides, and at the top of the rise was an elegant red-brick mansion with tall, ebony paned windows.

They were ushered out of the car and lead off the main hall to a small side passageway. From there they went down a long curving set of stone steps, through several even narrower halls, and finally arrived at a small and stark looking office.

There John and Mycroft parted company. Just like that, Mycroft disappeared without a word while John took in the spartan contents of the room. When John turned back around there was no one behind him but one of Mycroft’s ubiquitous minions. Or at least that’s what John presumed he was. Though he was dressed like a waiter, the taser strapped to his hip made it obvious he was part of the security detail. While John stood gaping, the guard pulled a folding chair in front of the closed door, sat down, and proceeded to stare blandly at John.

After a few awkward seconds of silence, John attempted to make some polite conversation. “So, I’m John. You are?”

The guard said nothing. His eyes focused out past John at nothing. He could have been a store mannequin.

“Ah… so,” said John, shifting his weight awkwardly. “This party. Do you know when it starts? How long I’ll be in here?” Nothing. Only the man’s blinking let John know he was alive. 

John tried again: “Listen, has Sherlock arrived yet? I’m supposed to stick by him. He’ll be upset if he doesn’t know where I am.” The guards eyes didn’t even flicker. It was pointless. He was talking at a wall. In a way, this was even more unnerving than when Anthea and her people had stood in the hallway and laughed at him. They at least _responded_ to him. They saw him as a being and not part of the furniture. 

John gave up on his guard and began testing the room, more for something to relieve the boredom than out of any great hope that he’d find anything useful. The filing cabinet was locked. The desk which held a few pencils and some stationary, but nothing more. The window of the room looked out on the retaining wall of the stone lined ditch that ran like a moat around manor. At the very top of the wall he could see a fringe of grass catching the last golden bit of sunlight. John tested the sole window. It was not meant to be opened and would have been a tight squeeze to get through in any case.

Through all this, John’s guard never moved or spoke. Apparently he didn’t think there was much mischief for John to get into. And in truth, there wasn’t. Mycroft _had_ him. Though John might be able to cause a mess and maybe break the window, he had no where to go and no purpose that could be served by rebelling. On top of that he did have Harry’s welfare to think about. He might not trust Mycroft to follow through, but even the chance of saving Harry from the auction block was too much to disregard.

At last, John settled for sitting on the other chair in the room and simply waited for something to happen.

And waited. And waited. 

Over two hours later, John was starting to die of boredom. He was chilly, thirsty, hungry and his backside was getting sore from sitting on a hard chair. The sun had set, robbing him of even the limited view out the window. But the party was now in full swing. He could faintly hear the muffled roar of conversation and the creak of footsteps occasionally passed overhead. As eight p.m. rolled around, the noise level increased. The creaking and thudding of footsteps over their head was constant. John was reduced to flipping through the wall calendar and staring at various glossy pictures of exotic places to maintain his sanity.

 _Come on, Mycroft, get this over with already. Sherlock, where are you?_ The suspense was killing him.

Responding to no clue that John could recognise, the minion abruptly stood up and moved his chair away from the door. A second later, the handle rattled and opened, and there stood Sherlock looking dazzlingly gorgeous and rather annoyed. “It’s time, John. Let’s go.”

“Yes, sir,” he said and stood up. Sherlock turned around and began swiftly retracing the path John had taken before. “Listen closely, here are your instructions,” said Sherlock over his shoulder, “All my orders will be verbal, so don’t expect hand signs or any subtle clues. If I don’t ask you to do something, don’t do it, no matter how mundane. If I do ask you to do something, do it, don’t question it. If you fail to immediately follow any of my orders, I will have to punish you ruthlessly. Do not talk, do not ask questions, do not respond to anyone but me. Do not look anywhere but at me or at whatever I direct you to look at. Do not answer questions from any one but me. Do not follow orders from anyone but me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” John said.

Sherlock stopped at the base of the stairs and grabbed John’s shoulders. “Listen, John,” he said in a quiet, urgent voice. “You are smarter and better disciplined than most of the people in that room. Their opinion of you means nothing to me. Don’t let anything they say get to you.”

“I understand, sir,” John said, and felt a little warmth. At least Sherlock was on his side. But Sherlock seemed to divine what he was thinking and shook his head, nervously.

“I have my part to act in this as well,” Sherlock continued, in a low voice. “So if I seem callous and uncaring, that is the act. If I say things that are hurtful — and I will — that’s also part of the act. It has nothing to do with how I actually feel or what I’d prefer to say or do. This whole thing is nothing but theatre. Just remember, the _only_ reason I’m doing this at all, is to keep you safe, and because I luh…” Sherlock swallowed loudly, “I care for you. Don’t spread that last bit around.”

“I won’t, sir,” said John, unable to keep a small smile from his face. Sherlock was looking oddly vulnerable and off guard and John felt the urge to be protective. He didn’t want Sherlock worrying about him. “I can do this, sir. I’ve been through worse. You don’t need to worry. Just do your part and I’ll do mine.”

“Good,” said Sherlock, his hands compulsively smoothing his jacket. “Good. Yes. So. Let’s do it shall we?”

“Yes, sir,” John grinned wider.

Sherlock’s lips twitched upwards in response, then he tamped it back down. “Don’t smile,” he hissed. “You are supposed to be miserable.”

John stopped grinning. The collar kicked in. Oh god, that felt good. Maybe the damn collar would help, as Mycroft predicted. If nothing else, he expected he’d be generously rewarded by it tonight.

“Two steps behind me, eyes on me, no higher than the waist. And for gods sake, don’t be cocky.”

“Yes, sir,” said John.

* * *

They followed the rest of the route back to the main hallway. There they met the first of the guests. Because he was keeping his eyes low and on the pleat in Sherlock’s Jacket, John got only a glimpse of expensive shoes, trousers, and the sequinned skirts of fancy dresses. But it didn’t matter that he couldn’t see the expressions of his enemy, his ears gave him plenty enough to work with. The noise level dropped the moment they rounded the corner. Then it grew and the first wave of laughter rolled like thunder down the echoing hall. John felt mortification ripple through him. He already hated everyone here.

“He looks utterly ridiculous.”

“It is him, look, it is! John Watson. It’s true. In his proper place at last.”

“He should have been hanged. Whipped at the very least. Looks awfully well fed.”

“Ugh, I knew he’d be ugly, but he’s grotesque.”

“Look at him at heel like a well trained dog. Looks like he’s enjoying this. I do think slavery agrees with him.”

John tightened his jaw and said nothing. It took all his will power, but he managed not to ball his hands. He wished that the collar would kick in again and at least let him ride a drug like high through it all, but the collar only rewarded once per order, and it had already dolled out its jolts for good behaviour. Silently, he willed Sherlock to keep moving as if it were possible to get past the gantlet of verbal harassment.

As if to spite him, Sherlock stopped a dozen feet down the passageway. John stopped as well, eyes fixed on the pleat of Sherlock’s jacket, thinking of following his orders and trying to ignore the conversations around him. He sensed the crowd circling him like vultures, full of sniggers and haughty spite. Their glasses clinked and the smell of alcohol drifted like a haze of perfume. John realised he was thirsty. He’d love a glass of water and after that he needed a good stiff drink, but there was no way to even ask until the party was over. It was going to be a long night.

Sherlock was speaking: “Hello, Mrs. Cordray, good to see you again.” Past Sherlock’s arm, John saw the reason for the abrupt stop. An elderly woman, judging by her voice as the style of her skirt, was standing too close and in Sherlock’s way.

“Hallo, Sherlock, my dear. I see you’ve joined our little society.” Her hand touched Sherlock’s sleeve. John saw Sherlock’s hand tighten and recognised his stiffness as discomfort. He felt an urge to put himself between the two of them and protect Sherlock, but that wasn’t what he was ordered to do. It wouldn’t be appreciated. Instead he held himself in place and tried not to feel the wind and warmth of others as they passed too close by his back.

“Yes,” replied Sherlock, dryly. “I’ve acquired a slave, as you can plainly see.”

Mrs. Cordray tittered. “Oh, I knew Mycroft enlisted you to help break his new project. But I hear now that you are actually wanting to _keep_ this mad dog. So unlike you! Here I thought you had nothing but scorn for slaveholding.”

“I didn’t have much use for a slave before,” said Sherlock. “I do now.”

“Yes, well, the first taste wins people over, doesn’t it? Don’t be surprised if you have two or three by the end of the year. When my father gave me my first slave I didn’t have a clue what I’d do with him, but now, I can’t imagine life without them. Like silent little elves, tucking themselves into corners, you’d hardly know they were there. They are so convenient — and cheap in the long run. Mine even make their own kibble and clothing in their spare time. I hardly need to lift a finger or spend a pound.”

“That’s very nice,” said Sherlock in the most dismissive way possible. “Ah, Mr. Jones!” he called out and attempted to move forward.

But Mrs. Cordray wasn’t about to be pushed aside. Her hand tightened on Sherlock’s arm. “But then mine are much more … domesticable. This one is a fighter, I can see. Just look at that expression! How do you trust him not to kill you in your sleep?”

 _You certainly wouldn’t be able to,_ John thought, maliciously. He silently hoped that Mrs. Cordray’s _little elves_ might realise that was an option. It must have shown on his face because she gasped.

“Mr. Holmes, Mrs. Cordray,” said Mr. Jones, appearing in John’s view as a pair of rather plain black trousers to Mrs. Cordray’s right. John noticed his shoes were scuffed and old, which seemed odd for such a fancy affair. “Of course, he’s a fighter. How ridiculous. Don’t you recognise him? This is the little shit blew up a records centre in Oregon three months ago. I’ve a hundred thousand pounds tied up in human stock because of it. Those slaves should have been in my factories a month ago but now they are still locked up in Pendleton, costing me money by the day.”

Mrs. Cordray and Sherlock both made little grunting noises of acknowledgment. Mr. Jones went on: “Mycroft should have given him to me to train. I’d put him to work on the drill press for eighteen hours a day until he drops.”

“Then you’d have a dead slave,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Then I’d have satisfaction.” Mr. Jones spun away and left.

Mrs. Cordray tittered, then leaned in to loudly whisper, “Michael’s in danger of losing his Wellington factory, I’ve heard. It’s his own fault. Half his stock is over sixty and dropping like flies. He thought he could save money waiting for that debt default legislation to pass and then sweep himself up a bunch of nice plump spendthrifts. No luck at all. I could have told him the credit companies would put up a fuss.”

“Mrs. Cordray,” said Sherlock in his coldest voice, “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone who remotely cares. Now, if you don’t mind…” Sherlock edged past her at last and began striding down the corridor as if he were making up for lost time.

John tried to followed behind him, but the crowds were denser in this half of the hallway. Someone slipped between them and, quick as that, Sherlock was lost. John looked up in a panic to try find him again. There he was, only a few feet further down the hall, but moving quickly away. He hadn’t noticed that John was no longer behind him. John tried to get around the person in front of him, but the man moved sideways in an unexpected way, and they bumped, and John’s chin and shoulder smacked into the man’s side.

John met eyes with a stern looking older man with wide grey muttonchops. The next thing he knew, his cheek was stinging from a slap, and not one of those light, offended taps either. It was a full bruise-making blow. 

John brought a hand up to his cheek and stepped backwards in self-defence, but that only meant stepping on the foot of someone who was apparently standing just behind him. He heard the offended “Hey!” felt a shove, and knew he was in deep trouble. It was as if the crowd had solidified around him. There was no where to turn and not run into someone, no getting away from the second blow, this time across the side of his head, clipping his ear. The most John could do was bring his hands up to cover his head to attempt to ward off the beating he was about to receive. 

That moment he heard Sherlock’s voice ring out loudly. “Don’t touch him!” The crowd parted. “No one touches him but me!” yelled Sherlock, his voice dark and wrathful. “No one punishes him, _but me._ ”

 _Oh, thank god, thank god._

“Your cur walked right into me. He dirtied my clothes with his greasy skin,” said the man with muttonchops. “I demand you punish him.”

“Very well,” said Sherlock. “John, heel.”

John cried out in pain and his knees buckled. For a second all he could think of was the sensation like fire burning his entire body at once. Then it was gone like it had never been. Around him the crowd oohed as if they were watching some amusing entertainment. 

“You are not to touch anyone, John,” said Sherlock. “And no one is to touch you.” That was obviously meant for the crowd. “Now, I asked you to keep right behind me and you didn’t, for that, I must punish you again. Heel, John.”

John kept the scream in, but only barely. Tears of rage filled his eyes. Sherlock was being unfair. It was impossible. But he didn’t say so because he knew that would only get a third punishment, and he couldn’t take it so soon after the other two.

“Stop cringing,” Sherlock order. “Stand straight. Eyes down. And since you are far too stupid to be able to follow me, this time you shall go ahead of me, where I can keep an eye on you.”

 _Yes, orders, more orders, orders good,_ John’s mind gibbered gratefully. He immediately stood up straight but kept his eyes down. Two jolts of bliss helped salve over the humiliation and anger. Much better. John resisted the urge to thank Sherlock. _No talking,_ he told himself.

Sherlock put one hand on his shoulder and the other on his hip and pushed him in the direction he wanted. “Ahead. To that doorway to the left. That’s the ballroom. We’ll go in and find a corner you can stand in and not be so much in everyone’s way.” 

Thanks to Sherlock’s brusque manner and commanding voice they were able to get into the ballroom where things weren’t nearly so crowded. The room was decorated with an Indian theme, large oil paintings recounting victorious battles on the subcontinent, tall bronze statues of Vishnu and Lakshmi bracketed a broad sweeping staircase leading to a mezzanine. Groups of slaveowners clustered around the open tiled floor, with black attired slaves weaving deftly in among them, offering trays of hors d’oeuvres. 

Sherlock ordered John to cross the room to the side across from where a bar had been set up. This was the quieter side of the room. A line of antique chairs placed in the broad nooks between the embossed bronze pillars that held up the mezzanine. Sherlock sat down in one of the chairs and told John to stand against the wall at his side. John happily took up position, glad to have something solid at his back. By this time, he was riding a wave of collar induced bliss and couldn’t muster a care for his situation anymore. 

Mycroft almost immediately appeared in front of them. “So far so good,” he said. “Though I think you should take John out to meet people a bit more before you settle back to play the wallflower. We don’t want him hiding.”

“It’s not my intention to hide him,” said Sherlock. “But your guests haven’t gotten the memo. They are crowding John and getting between me and him. I won’t be separated. And I won’t have them mauling him. Go ahead and direct people here. John can show off his obedience here as well as anywhere else.”

Mycroft thought a second and then nodded. “That should work. Do try to think up something to appease them when they arrive. I highly doubt they will be interested in seeing him merely standing and looking blankly at the floor.”

Sherlock grunted, noncommittally.

Almost immediately the first wave of gawkers arrived. “Well, it’s good to see him collared,” said one woman who looked to be in her forties, from what stolen glances he could muster. “But is he _good_ for anything? Save blowing things up, that is.”

_I’m a doctor, an assistant investigator, a soldier, an expert on weapons and security systems, a goddamn cook —_

“— Oh yes, and fucking,” she went on crudely. The crowd around them suddenly roared with laughter and she tittered along with them. John could tell by the slurring she was already a good way towards being drunk. “I much say he’s a much better writer than you are Sherlock. And what a thing to report on! Tell you what, I’ll pay you a tenner for a night with him, we can see whether he will be so happy and eager to please with someone of the opposite sex.”

“Wouldn’t work,” said Sherlock dryly. “He only responds that way to his master. Mycroft would have to give you master status over him for the night in order for the collar to operate. As the sub-owner, I don’t have the authority to do that.”

“You mean,” said someone else, eagerly, “you can do that? Pass temporary ownership without relinquishing your own?”

“It’s what John has now,” said Mycroft, who suddenly reappeared to the side of the audience, sipping at a glass of wine. “I handed over the day-to-day control to Sherlock almost immediately after I brought him back to England, but I retain the primary rights myself. I must say, John has been performing marvellously, despite my absence. You did all see the before and after shots of Sherlock’s flat. For all the difference, I’ve checked in with those two only once a week for a few minutes. And that was more for my own curiosity at John’s progress, rather than out of necessity. Barely a passing effort on my part, really. 

“Still, I am John’s primary master. I can remove Sherlock’s authority over him at any time and give John to someone else. For those of you with factories or larger households, you can even make other slaves temporary masters without relinquishing any control. Delegation is as simple as a few verbal commands. It’s all utterly intuitive and very natural.”

There were appreciative murmurs. John risked a glance at Sherlock. His expression was distinctly sour.

“And how has his training gone?” asked a voice.

Mycroft smiled unctuously. “Those of you who _bothered_ to read John’s blog long enough to get past the infuriating first entries, undoubtedly noted the effect the collar has had on his fanaticism. It took about a week for the collar to wipe out years worth of deeply ingrained anti-slavery beliefs and turn him into a happy, eager slave. These days he’s quite content blogging about his accomplishments with cooking and other domestic duties, and helping Sherlock with his cases. You may have even noticed how much more enthusiastic he is when he is allowed work and help his master directly, as opposed to the the days he was allowed to languish at home, bored. He can barely muster a thing to say when he’s not given a useful task.”

The crowd seemed to like that.

 _Wait, no!_ thought John, his mind racing back through his entries. _That’s not the way it had been at all! The liar!_

“Remember,” said Mycroft, suavely, “a slave in this collar actually _wants_ to work for his master.”

There was a smattering of claps and excited chatter in response.

Mycroft turned to John. “Do you like how the collar makes you feel when you follow orders?”

John froze. _Think of Harry. Think of Harry._ “Yes, sir,” he said. His voice creaking a little. He hadn’t realised how dry his mouth had become.

“Do you enjoy helping Sherlock with his work?”

“Yes, sir,” this was easier and truer.

“Tell me John, do you _love_ Sherlock?” asked Mycroft with a smile that looked almost savage.

“Now wait a minute!” Sherlock broke in. “That is our personal business. John, stay quiet.”

Mycroft didn’t flinch. “Answer John. I’m still your primary owner. In a word, I can relinquish Sherlock of his ownership.”

“Yes, sir,” said John, quickly. And he felt the rush of pleasure with his collar. When he emerged on the other side. His chest felt warm and then face felt red with the admission. 

It was true, though. He did love Sherlock. Sherlock was his entire world, would be his entire world from now to forever. Sherlock was a slob and a entitled git and the most fascinating person John had ever met. He was beautiful and boney and wrong and right. Fantastic in bed. Miserable in the morning. So smart. So precious. So evil, yet, there was good in him, beneath the flippancy and the refusal to acknowledge any sentiment. Sherlock cared about him.

“Yes, I love him.”

The crowd ooohed and Sherlock looked put out. He rolled his eyes. John knew that he’d fallen into one of Mycroft’s traps, but he couldn’t muster a care for it anymore. This sort of political manoeuvring was all far beyond him.

“There you have it, our radical abolitionist _loves_ his master. Really, what more could you want from a collar?” Mycroft lifted his glass in a smug salute. “Now, if you excuse me, I do believe that is as much salesmanship as I have in me. If anyone wishes for John to perform tricks and demonstrate a bit of his newfound loyalty, I’m sure Sherlock is open to suggestion.”

Sherlock sulked down into his chair with a grudging nod. And John felt panic well up again as a ring of cold eyes stared at him with gleeful anticipation.


	11. Chapter 11

If there was any mercy to the situation, it was that that the guests really weren’t all that imaginative. They watched avidly as John attempted to imitate various animals. Chicken was expected. Horse was more awkward, because John’s leg decided to stiffen up and he ended up scuttling about the tile like a neighing crab. After that came a request that he be a cat. John raised a brow perplexed when meowing failed to satisfy the the woman. It turned out she really wanted to see John be petted, but since no one was allowed to touch him that job could only fall to Sherlock and he flat out refused to join John in his humiliation. The guest settled for sitting John by Sherlock’s feet and having him licking his own hand. That elicited only a few half-hearted guffaws and John sensed audience begin to drift away in boredom.

It was all very stupid, but not painful. If this was all they demanded of him, he knew he was getting off easy. Sherlock seemed to think so as well, because, when he wasn’t stifling yawns, he wore a small, disdainful smile. 

The animal game ended when an elderly dame unwisely asked John to imitate a monkey. With glee, John grabbed the first non-breakable thing within reach (a canape off her plate) and flung it in her face while “ooking” and scratching his armpit. The stunned look on the slaveowner’s face as the cracker briefly stuck to her cheek was priceless. Even better was the her outraged expression when the room positively erupted in laughter. 

Even Sherlock laughed and then absolutely refused to punish John for his insolence. “It seemed an accurate representation of monkey behaviour to me,” he said dryly.

She stomped off as quickly as her thick heel pumps would take her.

Those left had unfortunately been inspired by John’s food throwing and started up a new game. This time, John was required to balance various hors d’oeuvres on his face on threat of being told “heel” if they fell off. This was a much more torturous game, and not just because of the collar shock waiting when he inevitably failed his task. It was ticklish, crumbs and fluids threatened his eyes, and inevitably his bad leg started to ache with a vengeance. He ended up standing wearily by Sherlock’s side with a pitted martini olive split half-way open and shoved over the tip of his nose. Keeping the thing from rolling off required him to cant his head back so far that he could only stare at the ceiling.

Thankfully audience seemed to have a short attention span as well as a lack of imagination. They rapidly became bored of just watching John do nothing, olive or no. Though John couldn’t see any of it, the chuckles quickly died out and then there was nothing but the general din of conversation, broken only by noise of glasses clinking and footsteps on the polished marble. 

When, at last, the olive gave up it’s grip and rolled off his cheek to the ground, there was no one left to appreciate it. Sherlock neglected to punish him. Or even notice. His eyes were busy scanning the crowd, fingers at his lips, a pensive look on his face.

John sighed with relief, nudging the olive behind Sherlock’s seat with his shoe. He wiped his face as discretely as he could with his hands. Then wondered if he risked stealing a sip from a tumbler abandoned on a nearby ledge.

Sherlock’s voice startled him. “See the man next to Mycroft?”

John immediately stood at attention and looked where Sherlock indicated. “Yes, sir.” 

Some thirty feet away across the sparsely populated ballroom, Mycroft appeared to be engaged in a heated conversation with a tall, lean man. Or to be more accurate, the man seemed to be heated, Mycroft was his usual unflappable self. 

“You met him earlier this evening,” said Sherlock softly. “Remember Mr. Jones? Angry about the debt default legislation not passing? To think I ever questioned his guilt. Just looking at his clothes, his mannerisms, the involvement is obvious. Interesting choice, his being here, though. I would think he’d wish to lay low and not attract so much attention to himself. But then desperation often does cause one to act rashly.” 

Across the room, Mycroft’s smarmy expression seemed to set off the man even more and now his voice carried across the room. Though John couldn’t make out the words, the tone of outrage was unmistakable. John couldn’t help but to feel sympathetic. He’d felt similarly upset when faced with the brunt of Mycroft’s smugness. Around the room, the general conversation level seemed to die down as people looked to see what the commotion was.

“Temporary slavery?” Mycroft’s voice carried across the now eerily quiet room.

“Yes!” shouted Jones. He almost reached out to grab Mycroft’s hands, but then, at the glare, thought better of it. “We take these young people with too much debt — in return for paying off their bills, we allow them to sell themselves, voluntarily, for one, three, five years. The Crown, of course, takes a cut. The temporary slaves emerge from their contract, not only debt free, but with a new appreciation for hard work and perhaps even a new skill set they can use to find employment. Factory owners such as myself have a constant supply of young workers. The creditors get paid. Everybody wins.”

“Temporarily,” said Mycroft. “Perhaps.”

Encouraged, Jones went on. “We can even extend the option of voluntary slavery to those _not_ in debt! Young, strong workers can give five years of their lives and receive at the end a generous lump payment, more than they could possibly save themselves. They can use this payment to invest in businesses of their own, or to buy a house, or a nest egg for their eventual retirement!”

“Or perhaps you could simply pay your workers a liveable wage and improve your work conditions to such a point that freemen would actually deign to work at your factories.” Mycroft’s voice cut painfully across the room. “I frankly think you vastly overestimate the stupidity of freemen, when you think that they’d voluntarily give up their personhood to work in one of those death-traps you call factories.” 

John felt the warmth of solidarity with Mycroft in that moment, which surprised and disconcerted him. He didn’t want to agree with Mycroft on anything.

Around the room, there were some embarrassed titters at Jones’ humiliation, then, as if on cue, conversation rose up and blocked the rest of the argument. John could clearly see that it had gone on, but he couldn’t read lips. From the expressions on the guest’s faces, there wasn’t much doubt that the jackals were feasting on this new bit of gossip. Horrid people.

“You said guilt?” murmured John, picking up the old conversation. “What is Mr. Jones guilty of?”

“Apples, John. Nuts.”

The sight and smell of a filth covered plane came vividly back to John. He remembered the stacks of yellow invoices. 34 lb., 19 lb.. A man’s body splayed across an office floor, his head viciously bashed in. John suddenly had no sympathy at all for Mr. Jones. He deserved every titter and malicious glance thrown his way. 

“Why isn’t he in jail?” John asked disgustedly.

“Lack of evidence,” Sherlock moaned. “Apparently my deduction of the involvement of a metalworks factory was deemed too circumstantial for the MET. Whatever. There are almost three dozen Washington freemen unaccounted for. It’s now obvious where they went. I’ve sent Lestrade a text. There should be a raid on Jones’ Wellington factory in the next few hours. This will not be a good night for him.”

 _Good,_ thought John.

“Be careful around him, John. He is a very desperate man and your involvement in unearthing and dismantling that slave ring was well documented in your blog.”

Mr. Jones seemed by chance to glance their way. His eyes met John’s and stuck. John felt a coldness ripple through his flesh. Mycroft took that moment to slip off to talk with the help behind the bar, ending the one sided argument by putting a row of wineglasses and liquor bottles between them. For a moment Jones looked confused at having lost his quarry. Then he straightened up and balled his fists and made his way across the ballroom floor to where John stood.

But when he arrived, Mr. Jones attention was not on John at all. He stared witheringly at Sherlock. “You think you are so clever, don’t you,” he snarled. “Putting on this dog and pony show with your brother. That collar. Using a known terrorist — if he even was that. I don’t entirely believe that this isn’t all complete fiction cobbled together by the two of you. But it won’t work. I’m on to your game.”

“What won’t work?” asked Sherlock, his innocent tone ringing false to John’s ears.

Mr. Jones stamped a foot, impatiently. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. You are bloody Sherlock Holmes, the famous investigator. You should be good for something other than taking slaves out of the system.”

“Illegal slaves,” replied Sherlock.

“Needed slaves.” 

“Yes, I heard your slaves were getting rather long in the tooth. Dropping like flies, aren’t they? Tragedy.” 

“—And besides the point. The solution to this labor crisis is obvious. The only reason Mycroft isn’t forwarding it to the committee himself is that he has a much more sinister plan.” Jones’ lips drew down dramatically.

That got a smile out of Sherlock. He leaned forward. “Yes, I’m the first to agree, Mycroft is quite sinister.” He then sat up straight and laced his fingers under his chin. “Very well. I’m not in the habit of listening to conspiracy theories, well, at least not from anyone but _paying_ clients. But do go ahead and tell me yours. This party is a painful bore and I could use a good laugh.”

Mr. Jones already flushed face turned darker. “This collar is nothing but a giant waste of everyone’s time. Mycroft thinks he can keep us distracted with the prospect of a perfect slave, while he slowly restricts the labor supply with his petty laws and his coddling of abolitionists.” Here he glanced at John. “If Mycroft has his way, me and most of the people here in this room out of business in a few years.”

“Why ever would he do that?” asked Sherlock.

“Power. He who controls the slaves, controls the economy of the entire British Empire. Mycroft has positioned himself like a spider in a web, spinning out a law here, neglecting abolitionists there, pushing us bit by bit to the point of economic collapse, when we are all live or die by his mercy.”

“Mycroft sounds positively despicable,” said Sherlock with a smile. “Do go on. I’m not sure how you can say he’s neglected the abolitionists, he took down John’s cell only a month ago.”

“I’m sure he knew about the Oregon Abolitionists long before he took that cell down. Who knows how long he’d have let the mayhem go on if Watson hadn’t threatened his precious internal collar.”

“Ah,” Sherlock turned to John. “Apparently Mycroft is a secret abolitionist, John. Doesn’t that make you feel warm towards him.”

John didn’t believe it for a second. He let his skepticism paint his expression.

“Anyway,” said Sherlock flippantly, “Do go on, I’m ever so entertained. Why on Earth is my evil older brother restricting the supply of slaves again? What’s he to gain from this? Fall of the Empire? Setting himself up as God maybe.”

“He wants to completely control the supply of slaves,” said Jones, exasperated. “Soon the only way we will get the slaves we need is though him. He’ll blackmail the lot of us into supporting his agenda. Anyone who opposes his will will face economic ruin. He’ll be our de facto ruler.”

“Oh, King Mycroft! Yes, I can see that,” Sherlock grinned. “Well, you certainly have it all figured out, don’t you. And here I thought Mycroft was just introducing a more effective and ethical slave training tool to all you slave holders, should you need or want it. But no, I see, you are right. He’s really taking over the world.” There was no mistaking his mocking tone.

Jones looked grimly prideful. “Don’t take me for a fool, Mr. Holmes. Even you can’t deny that this collar is nothing a delaying tactic. I don’t care about this collar. I have no desire at all to fuck the help.” 

Here he glared at John with utter disgust. _I’ve no desire to fuck you either,_ John thought back. 

Jones went on. “I need strong bodies that can work long hours on my machines — not happy drug addicts or whatever this collar is supposed to make them. They are slaves, for gods sake, not people. Criminals, parasites, indigent, who cares about their feelings. No, the existing collars are perfectly _fine_ , and much, much less expensive. What we need is quantity, not quality, and this new collar does _nothing_ to ease the drought of slaves.” 

Jones thrust his finger out at Sherlock, who took one of his own fingers and pushed it away. “And what do you think ranting to me will do about it?”

Jones backed off a few feet, flustered, as if he wasn’t sure himself why he was telling Sherlock. “You strike me as being reasonable, Mr. Holmes, and now that you are a slaveowner yourself, you have a stake in this as well. You can talk to him. I think you have more influence on your brother than you think,” said Mr. Jones. “He listens to you. He worries about you. I dare say he’s even somewhat obsessed with you.”

“Yes,” agreed Sherlock. “It’s terribly annoying.”

“Then convince him to abandon this ruinous path and listen to me for once. I _have_ a solution to the problem, Sherlock. One that will turn this labor drought into a flood. One that will leave the Empire prosperous for another 300 years.”

Sherlock tapped his chin. “Yes, I heard. Temporary slavery, wasn’t it? Indentured servitude? Interesting notion.”

Jones looked briefly hopeful. “Exactly. You know it would work.”

John swallowed. He longed to join in the conversation and tell Jones just why it _wouldn’t_ , but damn it, he couldn’t.

To John’s amazement, Sherlock shook his head. “Temporary slavery isn’t so temporary if the owner works the slave to death. With so little invested and a constant supply of new bodies, there’s no real incentive for you not to squeeze every last drop of profit out of your stock, even to the point of destroying their health. They become utterly expendable to you.”

 _Yes,_ thought John, gazing at Sherlock in amazement. _I couldn’t have said that better._

“Of course, the supply of voluntary slaves would dry up quickly as these temporary slaves start dying, so you’d likely get no more than a small number of initial volunteers. Just enough, perhaps, to to float you, personally, towards solvency, but not really enough to bolster the economy as a whole.”

Mr. Jones turned white, but said nothing.

“But congratulations, Mr. Jones,” said Sherlock, with a vicious smile, “for being even more of a cold hearted bastard than my brother. Believe me, that _is_ an achievement.”

Jones was absolutely stiff with rage. “You insult me.”

“Oh, don’t be so thin skinned.” Sherlock leaned forward and tsked. “If you want some sensible advice, forget trying to change Mycroft’s mind. Instead, I suggest you give up gambling. You are clearly rubbish at it.” At Mr. Jones gasp, he laughed. “Oh, don’t look shocked, you are obviously deeply in debt. Look at the state of your shoes! That suit. You haven’t had the funds to buy clothes in years. And where else would all the money go? Surely not to a mistress.”

John gaped. Who in their right mind would gamble themselves into debt? Jones of all people had to know the risk of defaulting. Or did he simply think that he was so rich that the rules wouldn’t apply to him?

“That’s the crux of it, isn’t it: you’re afraid,” Sherlock went on like a steam roller. “Afraid of losing your factories, afraid of losing your good name, afraid of being poor. You tried to gamble your way back to solvency but that only made matters worse. Then you tried cutting corners and diverted funds from your factory, but it just kept snowballing. Your slaves, unable to keep up with the harsher work load and ever worsening diet and conditions, started to die, and not just from old age, though that’s what you’d like to believe. It’s reached the tipping point now, you’ve become late on filling orders. Your reputation as a company has become tarnished as unreliable. But even if slaves were widely available to solve your labor crunch, you still don’t have the funds to buy them — not full price at least.”

“What are you talking about?” said Jones. “Be quiet!” 

“So you resorted to illegal slavery — oh yes, I know about that. It worked for a while, your production jumped quite nicely in the last two months. But then John and I shut down your supplier and now you are back in the same muddle. And now you are here, begging _me_ , of all people, to help you, when really you ought to be more worried that I’ll call the police.”

Jones grew paler and paler as Sherlock spoke. 

“Perhaps you should take yourself on as a temporary slave, hmm?” Sherlock said. 

John smiled at that. 

Jones eyes grew larger. He fisted his hands for a moment, then seemed to think better of it and stalked angrily away. John watched in satisfaction as he strode across the room throwing out angry looks at anyone who dared approach him. There was a nervous tittering in his wake.

“John,” said Sherlock, after a minute. “My mouth is dry. Please, go fetch one of the glasses of wine from the bar. The red, please.”

John did a double take. “Sir? You want me to leave you?”

Sherlock glared. “Don’t make me punish you, John. People are still watching.”

“I —“ John took a hesitant step forward. Though it was only across the short width of the room, the bar looked a very long way away, and there were clusters of people moving about between him and it.

“Come now, you are braver than this,” said Sherlock. “Remember, you _only_ obey me. Not them. It’s perfectly safe. They have been told not to touch you.” 

_Yes, but do they remember that,_ thought John. It seemed to him that they forgot that rule when it was convenient. There was no help for it though. He walked carefully across the ballroom as if it were a minefield. Thankfully, the room was largely empty and that he could skirt the clumps of slaveowners without much trouble. A few turned to look at him as he passed, but none attempted to talk or touch him. He reached the bar unmolested.

There were rows of white and red wine in identical glasses set up in rows on one end of the bar. The bartender was busy at the other end making a mixed drink for one of the guests. 

John did a double take. The bartender was Anthea! She wearing a black dress and sporting a slave collar around her neck. _But she’s not a slave._ John glanced around and recognised one of the other “slaves” carrying a load of canapes as one of the trio who’d brought his clothes that afternoon. His eyes then went from one “slave” to the next. Some were quite familiar, some less so. They were all Imperial Guard, not slaves at all. John was perhaps the only slave in the place.

John resisted the urge to touch his own fake collar. He reached out and grabbed a glass of merlot almost absently, wondering if the party goers realised that the “slaves” serving them were probably spying on their conversations. There seemed to be one near by to every group, hanging back with their trays of food. _Idiots,_ John thought, _they are so used to treating slaves as furniture that they’ve forgotten that we are people, with eyes and ears and brains. ___

John was so thoroughly distracted as he stepped away from the bar that he nearly walked into Mr. Jones. John jumped and gasped, stopping abruptly to keep from ploughing right into him.

The man grabbed the top of John’s glass to prevent himself from being splashed. He said nothing, but his face had blanched so badly he looked like he’d seen a ghost or become terribly ill. John worried for a moment that he might vomit on him.

“I’m sorry,” John said, tugging slightly at the glass, but Jones’ grip was firm, preventing him from moving on. He continued to stare down John as if appraising him. John saw a faint sheen of sweat on his brow and upper lip. “Please, sir, I’ve got to go.”

“What do you get out of this farce, Watson?” Jones asked at last. “You can’t tell me that you enjoy being a slave. I don’t believe it. You are far too proud. Is that collar really so addictive that you enjoy working for him now? Or are they holding something more over your head to insure your cooperation?”

“Sir, please let go of the glass,” said John more firmly.

Reluctantly, Mr. Jones lifted his hand away and wiped it on a handkerchief. “I don’t buy for a moment that you’ve been reformed. Neither will anyone else.”

John shrugged and headed back towards Sherlock, who was waving his hand in an impatient beaconing motion. John quickly crossed back to him. He’d doubtless seen John talking to Mr. Jones, and from the expression Sherlock didn’t like that a bit.

“Give that to me,” snapped Sherlock as he came within reach. “I told you not to talk to strangers.” He looked over Johns shoulder. And John turned and saw that Jones was hovering a few feet away, as if gathering courage to approach Sherlock again.

“John,” said Sherlock. “The wine.”

Belatedly, John handed him the glass and felt the wave of happiness from the collar. As he pulled his hand away he noticed little fine white powder on the back of his finger knuckles. Funny, the glass hadn’t seemed dusty. He looked up at the ceiling, wondering if the plaster might be drifting down from all the stomping about going on upstairs. Then it hit him what the powder was.

“No!” he screamed. “Stop, Sherlock, stop!”

But the wine glass was already at Sherlock’s mouth. He’d lifted it up to take a large swallow. 

_Oh god no, god no!_

Without thinking John grabbed the glass, spilling its contents all over Sherlock’s expensive tuxedo. He couldn’t help but see the wine dripping from Sherlock’s chin or the way Sherlock’s eyes had suddenly widened with shock. Somewhere near him there was a woman cried out.

“Spit it out!” begged John. “Don’t drink! It’s poison! It’s poison!”

Sherlock simply brought his hand up to his chest and coughed. A look of terror crossed his face.

 _Oh no, oh no!_ He turned to see see the smugly satisfied look on Jones’ face. In that moment Jones embodied everything that John hated. A slaveowner who thinks nothing of the lives of anyone but himself, whose ideas were to put more and more innocents under a cruel collar and grind them down under unrelenting work until they died. 

He couldn’t be allowed to live. 

John was already doomed (and Harry too — oh god — Mycroft would never forgive him for causing a fuss) but he could do one last good thing for the world. He could take _this_ man, this monster, out of it.

In a single movement, John tapped the wineglass against the wall shattering half and leaving the rest a sharp spike. By now the room had gone silent with shock, seeing Sherlock clutching his throat, the wine looking like dark blood spread across his chest. Everyone stared at him as he raced to where Mr. Jones stood. He grabbed the man’s shoulder to steady him and drew back his poison soaked glass shard.

Letting out an cry of despair and horror that echoed around the room, he thrust the improvised weapon into the man’s jugular.

At the last moment, Mr. Jones fell backwards. John barely saw the black clad “slave” yanking Jones’ shoulders and throwing him to the floor. He couldn’t see any more because there was Mycroft, shouting (actually shouting) “HEEL, JOHN!” at him. Pain blossomed up and mixed with his terror and despair. 

“Poison!” John managed to gasp, over the agony. “Sherlock’s been poisoned! He poisoned Sherlock’s drink! We need an ambulance!”

“What?” cried a woman. “What the devil is he talking about.”

The pain had receded. John found himself crouched on the floor in a loose ring of party goers. Mycroft stood by his elbow, with three more black clad, collared minions just behind him. He looked at his hand and saw just a trace of the dust left. “It’s on my hand. You can test it, figure out what it is. It’s in the glass. A powder. Someone help Sherlock! Please!”

John looked wildly around by he didn’t see any trace of Sherlock. 

“John _who_ poisoned Sherlock?” asked Mycroft. His voice was low and deadly. 

“Mr. Jones!” gasped John. “He did it. It was in his hand and he put his hand over the drink. And I gave it to Sherlock. I didn’t know!”

“I did _not!_ ” Mr. Jones cried out. He’d pushed free of the minion and stood up, holding his throat. His fingers were bloody. John had scratched him at least. If only enough of the poison had gotten into his blood stream to poison _him._ “This is a completely unprovoked attack. The man’s a mad dog! A terrorist! Couldn’t wait to kill us. Your collar is worthless!”

Mycroft looked at Mr. Jones. “Tell me Mr. Jones. If I examine the cup, will I not find your prints on the glass?” As if on cue, one of the minions held the broken glass delicately in a glove-clad hand. “Will I not find poison in the wine?”

The audience was riveted.

“If there is any poison in the glass, Watson put it there, himself.”

“How?” asked Mycroft, smiling again, like a shark. “Anyone can see John has no place to stow poison on his body. I picked his outfit myself. Someone would have to have given it to him, which leads us back to you again. And look, your handkerchief is soiled with wine.” There were murmurs.

“Why would I attempt to murder your brother?” snarled Mr. Jones.

“Perhaps to frame John in order discredit and injure me. After all I’m the one standing in the way of your ill thought through agenda. People were listening to us argue not half an hour ago.”

“My ideas are perfectly sound,” protested Mr. Jones.

“Yes, if your desire is to feed the abolitionist movement with endless pictures of innocent free civilians being brutalised as slaves. The empire is already on the precipice of civil war. When we begin stooping to tricking the innocent into slavery, then we have lost all our moral high ground.”

There were uncomfortable murmurs from the crowd that suggested maintaining the moral high ground wasn’t a high priority for most of the people here.

“Do you not understand the ramifications of what you are suggesting?” asked Mycroft, sounding utterly reasonable and deeply disappointed at the same time. “John has richly earned his collar with his bombings and mayhem. The population sees his slavery and feels safer. The moment we start putting people in collars simply because they are poor, they will rise up and riot. Every slaveowner here would be a personal risk.” Mycroft’s smile disappeared. “Your lack of business sense is no reason to upheave the whole economy.”

Mr. Jones laughed. “Christ, you aren’t omniscient, Mycroft. You’d have us all believe you on nothing more than your say so, but you have no evidence for it — any of it. And I think enough people know me to vouch that I’d never commit murder simply to get my legislative agenda passed.”

“That’s true —“ said Mycroft. “But you might stoop to murdering the man investigating your illegal slave dealings.”

The crowd parted and Sherlock stood there in his stained suited glory, looking utterly, fantastically fine. John let out a whimper of relief. He must not have ingested much of the poison after all. Sherlock put his phone away as he strode up to John. 

“Detective Inspector Lestrade just texted,” he said, casually. “They found the missing Washington Colony _freemen_ chained to the equipment in Mr. Jones’ Wellington factory. Bad luck, old boy. You are being charged with kidnapping, assault, false enslavement and tax evasion.”

“Sherlock,” said John softly. He almost hugged the man’s knees, he was so grateful the man was alive.

Sherlock looked down at him, as if surprised to see him sitting on the floor. He raised a brow, then looked back up. “I didn’t drink your poison, thank god.” he said to Jones. “By the way, that cut looks nasty. Let’s hope it infects.”

Mycroft lifted a hand and his minions seized Jones by his arms and dragged him out of the room.

“I’ll see you at your collar fitting,” Sherlock called out.

There was a general uproar which Mycroft attempted to calm down. He circled around, using his arms like an orchestra conductor. “Dearest friends, my deepest apologies for all the drama and I hope you forgive the unscheduled excitement. As this room has become a crime scene, I’m afraid we all need to vacate. So I’ll take this opportunity to begin the formal presentation. If you would all follow me to the theatre room….”

He then ushered them away, giving John a quick smile, before getting lost in the slow shuffle out the door.

John stared, stunned. Why had he smiled?

He felt a hand against his shoulder and realised he was still sitting on the ground in an all but empty ballroom. Anthea was marking off the area around Sherlock’s abandoned, wine stained seat with tape while the other “slaves” took up posts at the doors. 

“Stand up,” said Sherlock. “It’s over. We can go home now.”


	12. Chapter 12

John stood up, and for once the collars bliss wasn’t enough to counteract the tension in his belly. “I saw you drink the wine. How?”

“You saw me place the glass to my lips and pretend to drink. All show. I knew Jones was watching.”

“You knew it was poisoned. Why did you even pretend? Why did you risk it?” John’s mind was reeling. If Sherlock had died, what would have happened to him? Who would Mycroft have given him to next? 

Or would he have given him to anyone at all? Perhaps Mycroft would have simply had John killed for his part in his brother’s murder. Slaves were killed for far less. Perhaps that would have even been a mercy, because John couldn’t bear to think of life as a slave without Sherlock, his only friend, not being there for him.

Sherlock simply shrugged. “I had to give him the option of stopping me,” he said, as though it were obvious.

He gave John’s shoulder a tug and then started leading him, not to the hall where the rest of the guests had gone, but to the stairs leading up to the mezzanine.

“Why?” John called up at him.

“Don’t you see,” said Sherlock, gaining speed on the stairs, almost as if he were deliberately trying to leave John behind. “If I’d simply _declared_ the wine to be poisoned the moment you handed it to me, he might have been able to argue to a judge that it was a mistake and he thought _you_ would be the one drinking it. Attempted destruction of property is only a crime to the degree that the property is actually damaged. You were unhurt, ergo, the whole exercise would have been for naught. It wasn’t until I raised the glass to my lips and he, watching, made no move to stop me, that it became attempted murder.”

John shook his head, then realised Sherlock wasn’t even looking. His leg was aching something awful, but he forced himself to mount the stairs as quickly as he could. “I’m sure Mycroft would have found a way to punish him anyway,” he called after Sherlock. “In fact, I’m surprised he didn’t drag me off by my ear for my part in it,” he said much softer to himself.

“Oh, Mycroft knew,” said Sherlock, leaning over the rail and looking down at him. “He knew the moment Jones arranged to purchase the poison. He does so love to keep track of that sort of thing.”

John reached the landing and swung about on the bannister to aim himself down one of the arms of the mezzanine. Sherlock was already half way down the gallery. It turned out that this level wasn’t much wider than a hall, sparsely populated with statues and other _objet d’art._ John found his eyes drawn to the large oil paintings of smoke and canons and brightly uniformed soldiers falling in untidy heaps. He shuddered, then picked up the pace to keep up with Sherlock, who was striding briskly towards a door at the far end.

“He knew that Jones planned on murdering you — and he let it happen?” John asked, as he trotted. He couldn’t believe it. Nothing in John’s experience lead him to think that Mycroft wouldn’t do all he could to protect his protect his beloved brother.

“Murder me?” said Sherlock, surprised. “Naturally not! I doubt Jones even knew I’d be here at the party. No, the poison was meant for Mycroft, of course, but I knew if I painted a large enough target on myself, he’d change his aim.” Sherlock barely slowed down to open the door and John nearly was smacked in the face as it swung back into place.

“That’s even worse,” said John, moving up at last to walk side by side with Sherlock. They were in a narrow hall leading to a separate wing of the manor. Things were built more to human scale here. Even the windows were plainer and looked down on the darkened vineyards. “I can’t imagine why Mycroft would allow you to risk yourself. Doesn’t he have minions to take those risks for him?”

“I _didn’t_ drink it,” said Sherlock exasperated. “That’s the point. And really, John, I was entirely safe, unlike Mycroft who was constantly being distracted. We gave Jones the opportunity to get his revenge in a safe, well observed, well controlled environment. Mycroft got rid of a political enemy. I tied up the last loose end on that illegal slavery ring and gave the MET one more reason to tolerate my participation in their affairs. Win, most decidedly _win.”_

Sherlock seemed to be counting unmarked doors. He stopped in front of one of the doors on the right. 

“Honestly, John, the only surprise this entire night was _you._ ”

“Me?” said John.

Sherlock put his hands on John’s shoulders. “You tried to save me. I didn’t need it, but that doesn’t negate the fact that you, of your own volition, took the poison away and then threw yourself at someone you’d deemed a threat to me. Don’t think that didn’t impress the crowd. That collar proved its worth more in those moments than it had in all the humiliating tests before. It’s one thing to say you love me, John, it’s quite another to _demonstrate_ it.”

“Oh god,” said John. His mind reeled. _What have I done?_

“Extra expense be damned, it wouldn’t surprise me if Mycroft’s collar became the new standard in the next few years.”

“Oh, god!” John repeated. 

Sherlock frowned. “Why are you so upset? You were far more magnificent that either Mycroft or I allowed for. Neither of us thought you’d figure the wine was poisoned. I guessed you might try your doctoring skills to save me once I dropped the glass and started choking. Mycroft worried that you’d just flee in panic. But your way was far better. Marvellous theatre. Quite memorable.”

Sherlock didn’t wait for a response. He opened the door on what apparently was a guest’s suite and stepped inside. John didn’t really have a chance to get a good look at it. Sherlock had already crossed the room and then paused briefly at an inner door.

“I’m going to get out of these ridiculous clothes and freshened up,” he said, pulling off his wine-stained coat. “I’ve left you some of your street clothes in the adjoining suite, if you care to change. Might want to wash your face while you’re at it, John. It’s a bit crumby. After that I’ll call us a cab and we can leave. Our part at this party is done, thank God.”

He stepped into the en suite and closed the door.

John stood for a second staring at the richly stained oak panelling, too shocked at the abruptness of everything to really know what to do next. Then, slowly at first, but then with an increasing pace, he walked back out, through the suite and into the hallway. He searched vaguely for his promised clothes with a mind was full to the point of numbness. Stepping a few feet in a random direction, he found his eyes caught on the gibbous moon trying to escape from a veil of thin clouds. He stopped, putting his hands on the cold sill.

He was aware suddenly of the terrible quiet around him. For the first time in days, he was completely alone. Unwatched. The hall seemed dark, unfriendly and foreign. He felt utterly lost, rudderless at sea. His guts turned acid with undigested emotions.

Sherlock was safe. Sherlock and Mycroft had planned everything … therefore it was, none of it, John’s fault. If it wasn’t Johns fault then Mycroft was pleased at his performance. Then perhaps Harry was saved. Maybe. Maybe not. Who knew. John had no way to make Mycroft honour a promise. But it could be that she was safe. And that would be good, because he couldn’t bear to think of her having wires threaded through her brain. 

On the other hand, by saving her, he’d all but ensured that others would suffer his collar. How could he have let that happen?

On the other, other hand, he’d kept Jones from ever abusing another a slave again. 

On the other, other, other hand, Mycroft, who was arguably worse, _would._

John’s head spun. _Don’t feel guilty, it’s not your fault,_ he told himself, slapping his hands on his thighs. _I’m not brilliant. I can’t be expected to out think the brightest people on earth._

Besides, Sherlock seemed pleased enough. That was good. And Mycroft promised that he’d hand sole ownership over to Sherlock, and that was better. At least that was something that couldn’t be faked or lied about. Having only one master with single set of agendas would be a relief.

What had his life come to if he found comfort in this? 

Despair deeper than John had ever known gripped his chest. He leaned against the window pane, biting back tears for himself, for his impotence, for all the innocent people who would now be tormented by this collar based on his actions tonight. This was his breaking point, for sure. Part of him longed for Sherlock to order him, just to feel good again. And that made it worse. He was an addict. A bloody addict. The lowest of the low.

He heard the sound of of a door closing not far away, and then footsteps. John sucked in a breath of terror, worried that some guest would discover him alone and wandering and take exception to it. The last thing he needed was to be beaten up by some posh prejudiced arsehole out for a bit of private vengeance. Then his mind seemed to flip and he thought perhaps that might be a good thing to be treated as bad. If being caught wandering without a master made him look like a less of a perfect slave, perhaps it could be a way to discredit the collar…. 

Or wait. There was a better way. One way that no one in the building could deny. An embarrassment that Mycroft couldn’t prevent nor sweep under a rug. The answer to everything came in a blinding burst, as euphoric in its pleasure as the collar itself. 

Suicide.

John sucked in a breath that seemed to squeak though his tight chest.

It had to be suicide, not murder, not assault. His death at the hands of a guest would be nothing more than destruction of unwanted property to these people. Meaningless. Pointless. Worthless. But his death by _his own hand_ — now that would cast doubts on the collar itself, wouldn’t it? Who would invest money in a collar that drove men to suicide? It was supposed to make him happy and complacent, right? That was the sell, wasn’t it? Who would pay for a collar that killed it’s stock?

Okay. Okay. John stood straighter. Much as he wanted to live (oh he did, even now, he did) — he could die for this. Yes. One last act of rebellion. One last strike for freedom. A single blow to Mycroft’s relentless power. He was brave enough and it would give him (briefly) a moment of self-respect.

But he couldn’t waste any time now. No. Down the hall, around the bend, somewhere, a steady set of foot steps grew closer. Once he was found the opportunity would be closed for who knew how long.

Stomach girded, mind fixed on a goal, John moved quickly and silently to the door to the right of the one to Sherlock’s suite. It was unlocked, dark and empty. Good. Closing the door behind himself with the gentlest of clicks, John surveyed a dim room filled with the dark silhouettes of furniture. Light from somewhere outside in the garden caught in the gauzy curtains flanking a set of french doors. Through the glass, John saw a private balcony. There. That would do.

He opened the twin doors, pushing them gently out into the cool, quiet night. Then, refusing to give in to fear, he strode determinedly out onto the stone balcony. Adrenaline made his skin tingle. He barely felt the nip in the moist night air. 

He leaned over the rail and surveyed the dry stone moat some 30 feet below. The drop was far enough to instantly kill unless he was terribly unlucky. _This will work,_ he thought, dispassionately.

John’s breath seemed to catch in his chest. His nerves vibrated and nausea threatened to make his empty stomach turn inside out. But despite that, he knew he could do this. He had more than enough reason to. A moment’s pain and it would be all over. The great nothingness. He’d never have to obey another order, or feel guilty every time his collar pleasured him. He wouldn’t even have to deal with the messy aftermath of his body smashing against the flagstones. This would be his final “fuck you” to the world.

Behind him the lights in the room suddenly burst on. John jumped, but didn’t turn around. Times up.

“Oh, there you are, John,” said Mycroft, his voice practically oozing with smugness. “Got a bit lost have you? Or just sight-seeing?”

John stiffened. _Now or never! (Oh god, I don’t want to.) Now or never!_ He took a deep breath and steeled himself to lever over the rail. One, Two…

His body burst in flames. 

John screamed as his skin was lapped with invisible fire, every nerve seared, and then it drove deeper, slowly eating through fat, muscle and bone, until it finally extinguished itself in his brain. It was the worst collar punishment he’d ever suffered — longer than any cry to “heel” had been. The torture lasted an eon. Longer. 

John was barely aware of arms giving out, or the way his knees bent weakly as he fell to the balcony floor. He barely noticed himself writhing in uncoordinated agony. It had to stop, it had to. Any second it had to. 

Then the pain was gone and he was left bathed in sweat with nothing but the fading ghost of its memory. He collapsed flat on the cold stone floor, his body cold and exhausted.

“Oh, John,” said Mycroft, peering down at him. “I _told_ you that slaves weren’t allowed those decisions. The collar was designed to prevent suicide. It activates on its own if you attempt self-harm.”

He reached down to help John up to his feet. “Come along, come inside. Don’t be upset. You’ll feel better after I’ve debriefed you.”

Anger surged through John. Almost without thinking, John pulled himself to his feet. He grabbed Mycroft’s arm and attempted to flip _him_ over the rail. If John couldn’t kill himself, he could at least kill the biggest bane of his life! It would likely be the last thing he ever did, but it would be a _good_ thing.

Mycroft didn’t resist. He seemed so surprised that he fell against the rail and just stared gape mouthed, as John mustered all of his strength to push the man up and over the side. “Don’t!” he said a delayed second later. “Don’t! Wait!” He didn’t tell John to heel.

He didn’t have to. Before he could get Mycroft’s centre of gravity anywhere near the tipping point, the collar kicked in on it’s own again. Once more he fell to the ground helplessly. Over the pain he heard Mycroft’s alarmed voice saying, “Nor will it allow you to harm your masters! Stop that! Stop thinking that at once!”

The collar cut off and John lay gasping on the floor, unable to move. His entire spirit had been cored. He had no motivation to anything anymore. He was completely, utterly defeated.

“John, patience,” said Mycroft, pulling his coat back into place. “Patience. Stop hurting yourself. Lie still and rest.”

Since John didn’t have the energy to move anyway, it was inevitable that he’d obey. The collar kicked in gloriously, bathing him in pure relief. Oh so good. Exactly what he needed. He could lie here forever and feel that.

To John’s complete amazement, Mycroft lowered himself to the balcony’s stone floor. He did so stiffly, like a man who hasn’t had to kneel or sit in anything but a chair for years. At last, rather painfully he sat with his back to heavy stone rail, his trousers hitched up so high that his sock suspenders peeked out. 

“It’s okay,” he said, reaching a hand out to pat John’s shoulder, tenderly. “Shh. It’ll all be fine. It was a hard night for you, but the worst is over. No more humiliations. No more awful slave owners gawking and spouting their self-satisfied tripe at you. You did your job beautifully and I will reward you as promised. I’ll see that Harriet gets everything she needs to avoid the collar. Soon as you know it, you’ll be back with Sherlock, traipsing about solving those mysteries that he so loves together. You’ve been enjoying that. So relax. Relax. Let it all go. Breathe. The worst is over.”

John couldn’t help breathing. The collar inevitably rewarded him again for it. It was what he needed, yes, that rush of bliss. The only good, reliable thing left in his life. And when the pleasure left him, he was no longer cramping from the tightness of his muscles. His body felt like he’d shaken a long illness and was just climbing back to health again.

He pulled himself away from Mycroft’s patronising hand and propped himself into a sitting position just out of arm’s reach. A wave of fatalism over took him. Emotion drained. He was just too tired to care anymore. 

“That’s it,” said Mycroft, approvingly. “Pull yourself together. Are you ready to listen?”

“It’s not like I have a choice,” said John dully.

Mycroft smiled. “There’s always a choice, but some are better than others. And it’s better to be informed than not.”

John snorted.

“I’m first to admit that I’ve put you through hell this last month,” said Mycroft. “Though an argument can be made that you paved the way to this by your own criminal actions, I think you’ve had that point rubbed in quite enough for one evening. We all make choices, some of them good but difficult. Some of them, while justified, are bad. Some of them are downright terrible, but the only option available to avoid an even worse fate. What I’ve done to you is _terrible_ , John.”

“I agree,” said John. Was Mycroft actually apologising? Why bother?

“I told you weeks ago that the the British Empire rests on three legs: Loyalty, Innovation, and Labour. Cut off one of those legs and we will fall swifter and more bloodily than than the Romans did millennia ago. Whether we like it or not, slavery is sewn deeply into the fabric of our economy and society and can’t simply be _ripped_ out with pipe bombs and exploded factories. Abolitionism will only hasten the day the Empire shatters into a hundred unstable factions. A new dark ages for all.” Mycroft smiled hopefully at John, as if expecting his approval. 

John sighed, slouching even further. “I see,” he said, bitterly. “Bad as it is, slavery is better than the alternative — therefore you are okay with with it.” He threw up his hands. “Well, you’ve won. I can’t fight you. I can’t escape you. So, sure. Whatever you want me to believe, Mycroft, I’ll buy it. It’s your show. Slavery good.”

“John, please,” said Mycroft, shifting uncomfortably. “You miss my point. We can’t rip away slavery without unravelling our society, but we can _pluck at it_. Carefully. We can reduce it, thread by thread. We can replace key parts. Be we have to do it methodically, thoughtfully, with an eye to the future.”

A hollow laugh welled up in John’s chest and he turned and stared incredulously at Mycroft. “Are you saying — are you saying that you _are_ a secret abolitionist?”’

“I’ve been working towards abolition a lot longer than you have,” said Mycroft. “A law here. An ordinance there. Slow strangulation is far more effective than random bombs.”

“The bombs did their job.”

“Did they really?” asked Mycroft. “Oh, John, you’ve _seen_ the result of that. Cut off the supply of legal slaves without reducing the demand and we only end up with illegal slavery. And as you’ve seen with illegal slavery, there are no limits, no checks or balances on who gets put in a collar or what conditions they are subjected to afterwards. Now come at it the other way around — reduce demand and the supply will dry up without a whimper.”

John, despite himself, listened. “And you can do that? Reduce the demand?”

Mycroft smiled smugly. “I have been shaking hands, and attending meetings, and whispering wise words into the ears of those who see slaves as only slightly more than vermin. I’ve appealed to their greed, their short-sightedness, their vanity, and their prejudices, and in return they have slowly seen reason. And I _have_ reduced demand. Every year a slaveholder finds that it is simply cheaper to hire freeman than jump through the hoops I’ve set up. Every year a modern factory, run with the latest machinery and well trained and paid workers, drives an antiquated slave competitor out of business. It’s tedious at times, keeping things stressful for the slaveholders without making it obvious how artificial their plight is. But it has been successful.”

John thought about the abandoned slave orphanages. The failed debt legislation.

“But money is only half the battle,” said Mycroft, wincing and shifting his weight. “There’s a much more insidious factor holding slavery in place that I simply can’t legislate away. That’s why I needed you.”

“And what’s that?” asked John, curiosity eating away at his despair.

“Social status, of course,” said Mycroft as if it were obvious. “Half of the people at this party only use slaves domestically. For them it’s not about the economy, it’s about the status symbol. They have considerable influence that must be managed. For _them,_ I designed your collar.”

“So they’d be seduced with a perfect slave, and won’t _care_ what happens to the factories.” John’s eyes widened with amazement.

“Exactly. They will happily throw the New Moneyed under a bus for the sake of a better behaved slave. Kudos to them.”

“So, thanks to me, you have them all in your hand,” said John bitterly. “Well, lovely for you, Mycroft. Maybe not so lovely to those perfect slaves, but who cares about them.”

“I care about them, John,” said Mycroft with a gasp of exasperation. “Engineering social change amongst the gentry takes _time_. But brain surgery is is expensive, and it can’t be mass produced like an external collar. The only people who will ever wear a collar like yours will be the very worst of our criminal class. And for them, whose to say, the pleasure of the collar might be a better fate than the gallows, but even you would have a hard time feeling too sympathetic to their plight.”

John tightened his lips grimly.

“Mmph!” John looked at the pained grunt and saw Mycroft shifting himself awkwardly up to his feet. “Forgive me, I’m simply not limber enough to enjoy a long sit down on the floor. Besides, you are shivering. Let’s go inside. Sherlock will be out of his shower soon.”

John hadn’t really noticed that he was shivering, but he was. The urge to injure himself was gone, and the inside did look inviting. Mycroft closed the doors behind them, then took one of the two arm chairs near the cold fireplace. John stood by the vent while the manor’s feeble central heating did it’s best to rewarm the room.

“Sit down,” Mycroft said pointing to the other chair. John obeyed, finding himself looking eagerly forward to the collar’s response. It triggered just as John took his seat, making him feel even more relaxed and okay. 

“How long have you been at this?” John asked with idle curiosity.

“Planning? Since primary school. Though it took a decade to get to a position where I could execute my ideas.”

“And this is as far as you’ve gotten,” said John, somewhat flippantly, but he’d figured at this point that Mycroft wasn’t really going to punish him for something as trivial as insolence. Mycroft had laid out his cards, bizarre and unexpected though they were. “I should think, with your mind, you’d have abolished slavery in a summer.”

Mycroft curled his lip with offence. “Well, to be truthful, slavery is hardly the only iron I have in the fire. As soon as I’ve dealt with this collar, I can devote my full efforts to helping the Empire to amicably divest itself of the most costly parts and shore up the central sustainable core. It won’t be easy. Our people will put up a fuss at losing two rocks and a sheep if it has a British flag planted in it. I’ll be massaging a wounded national pride for the next twenty years at least, I imagine.”

“My god,” said John, incredulously. “You _do_ want to be King.”

Mycroft’s eyes flashed. “Dear lord, no! Never! All that pomp and ceremony, not to mention the public scrutiny? I’d never get anything done!”

He turned his head. “Go ahead and ask,” he said after a moment. “You want to know — why of all the abolitionists and political enemies of mine, did I pick you.”

“Yes,” said John, feeling just the slightest flicker of his earlier ire. “Why me?”

Mycroft leaned forward and patted his knee with a grin. “Because I knew you could handle it, John. And you have. There aren’t many people who could put up with my brother. Besides,” Mycroft went on. “Even if you weren’t a slave, Sherlock would likely treat you like one, anyway.”

John choked out a laugh. That was actually true. Sherlock _did_ have a habit of treating everyone as if they were particularly dimwitted servants. If anything, he treated John with _more_ respect.

The door opened half way though John’s laugh and Sherlock strode into the room, back in his normal tailored suit and Belstaff coat. His wet hair was slicked back and a look of suspicion soured his face, as if he knew they’d just been talking about him.

“Ah, there you are, John!” Sherlock said, voice rumbling. “Has Mycroft been letting the cat out of the bag at last? Good. Well then we can discontinue all the pretending.” He turned to Mycroft. “You’ve had your fun with him, now turn him over to me, as promised.”

Mycroft rose and levelled a disdainful eye at his brother. “I said I would and I will, but you in turn must make _me/i > a promise.” Sherlock’s frown increased. Obviously, he was not in the mood for promising anything. “Tell me that you will be careful with him. Owning a person is a very big responsibility. I won’t have him be abused or neglected.”_

“Oh, that,” said Sherlock, as if John’s life was nothing worth worrying about. “Of _course_ , I promise. I’m not very well going to injure the only person who has even come _close_ to being worth my company.”

John rolled his eyes.

“And you, John,” said Mycroft, sharply. “When I hand over your reins to Sherlock that doesn’t mean that I won’t be keeping an eye on you. If you start blowing up buildings, or hurting Sherlock, or anything that might endanger my agenda, I shall be _very_ upset. I might not be able to tell you to heel, but I still have an army at my disposal. Don’t make me use them.”

“No, sir,” said John, smartly.

Mycroft smiled. “Very well. I name Sherlock as your new primary owner and relinquish my own ownership. Heel, John.”

 _What the hell!_ The completely unexpected punishment outraged John. He hadn’t done anything to deserve it! But just as he rose from his seat to protest, he realised that no actual punishment had happened. The collar lay mute. He levelled a look of surprise at Mycroft, “What was that about?!”

Mycroft just seemed a little wistful. “Just a simple test.”

“You don’t go telling me to ‘heel’ as a test!” groused John. “What if it’d worked?”

“Leave it be, John,” said Sherlock, looking utterly satisfied.

Mycroft nodded and strode towards the door. “I shall leave the two of you to go about your business. I’ve still got a theatre full of miserable slave owners to deal with and the presentation should be finishing any moment. You know your way out, I expect.” He gave John one last nod and then let himself out. For a moment the quaint guest’s suite was quiet but for the low hum of the heating.

“So it’s just you and me now,” said John, at last.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, with satisfaction. “You and me.”


	13. Epilogue

For the next three days, John dreaded leaving the the flat. Laundry was building up, the larder was empty, and they were out of tea. But at least here, in this little oasis, he was treated more or less as if he were a real person and not a piece of property. He tidied and cruised the internet, watched telly and studied Sherlock’s various essays in an attempt to be somewhat useful when Sherlock’s next case came around. Time passed quietly. Hour by hour, day by day, things began to feel normal. John simply couldn’t hold on to the feeling of existential fear under the weight of all this mundanity.

Sherlock was back in his “ignoring” moods. Which meant a whole lot of him dragging about the flat making soft muttering noises, and not a lot of orders. He paced from bedroom to kitchen, his silk robe flapping about his lean body in a way that seemed somehow more dramatic than silly, but John wasn’t entirely sure how.

“We’re out of tea,” he said on one of his passes.

“Yes,” said John, “I know.”

“Are you waiting for me to order you to go get more tea?” Sherlock asked on the next pass.

“If I’m to go out there and get treated like crap, it might be nice of you to make it an order, yes,” said John at his back. If he couldn’t remove the collar, he might as well enjoy what he could of it.

“Why would they treat you like crap?” called Sherlock from their room.

“Oh, perhaps because _that’s how slaves are treated!”_ John called back scathingly to Sherlock’s front this time. “Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed. You were with me at that party.”

“Mmm. Trying to forget it. Mycroft’s territory.” He paused in his path to check the cupboard were they usually kept their tea, as if it might have somehow magically acquired some in the last few seconds. 

John sighed. “Well, I don’t have that luxury, so if you want me to go out and have random people spitting on me, you’ll bloody well have to order it.” He crossed his arms over his chest and gave the muted telly a severe look.

“Oh that that shouldn’t be a problem. You aren’t wearing a collar anymore, how would they even know?” asked Sherlock before disappearing in their room again.

“Oh, maybe because you _paraded me around the neighbourhood with a collar on three days ago._ ” John got his arse off the couch and intercepted Sherlock’s next pass in the hall. “Much as you think everyone around you is a complete imbecile, our neighbours do have memories longer than that. So yes. If you want me leaving this flat and facing all that again, I damn well want an order.” 

Sherlock stood looking a little put out that his pacing had been interrupted. Then he seemed at last to register the serious look on John’s face. He paused to consider. “Very well, I’ll get dressed. Let’s go get a coffee.” He turned around and vanished into his room again, this time closing the door behind him.

“What?” John called through the door. Christ. Trust Sherlock to focus on the wrong problem. No tea in the house? Coffee. Obvious.

A few minutes later Sherlock reemerged, looking impeccable in one of his tailored suits. “Off we go,” he said merrily. “I’ll prove to you that it’s not nearly as dire outside as you are imagining.” John followed him down the stairs. Outside the weather was fine and there the usual numbers of people out on the streets. A few lost looking tourists (John’s eye spotted a tourist guide in the coat, those jeans were popular in Germany), a number of people who walked with that purposeful stride that said they were on an errand. John ignored them. a few John’s eyes ranged from one to the next, looking for familiar faces. He spotted one in a window, but between the glare and the darkened interior, he didn’t get any sense of expression.

It seemed there was a coffee shop on every street corner in London, and Baker Street was no exception. Sherlock pushed the door open and strode in. And now here _were_ some people that John knew. That man was a stocking clerk at the Tescos, that woman used the same laundrette. They both abruptly stopped what they were doing to stare at John. He found himself putting his hand up to his bare neck where the collar no longer pressed.

Sherlock noticed his gesture before he noticed the expressions on the people’s faces. He gave a great heaping sigh. “He LOST THE BET!” he shouted. “Dear god, you didn’t think he was a real slave did you? Walking around in that silly get up?”

 _I did what?_ John thought stupidly for a second. Then his mind clicked. “And it’s the last bloody time I wager anything with you. You _cheat_!”

The audience seemed to catch on. _Oh, their eyes went on. It was just a dare. Aren’t they a bit old for that._

“I did not,” said Sherlock, rolling his shoulders, and effecting an unhurt look. “I observed. The evidence was entirely there for you to grasp any time. I can hardly be faulted for your obtuseness.”

“Well some of us aren’t brilliant detectives,” said John, feeling his heart lighten up. “Next time we’ll wager with money like normal people.”

“You haven’t any money,” said Sherlock. “So perhaps it’s best we not wager at all.” He reached the head of the queue, “Two tall vanilla lattes, please.” He passed a fiver and waited for his change. The room had returned to its normal activity. Though John could see a few disapproving looks and some giggling in the corner, attention was more on Sherlock than himself.

John was having a hard time not laughing at them, the relief was so great. So this is how it was going to be. He … he could tolerate this. Christ, well, there were some definite advantages to having the worlds smartest and most observant man as your owner. 

On the way back from the caffe, John leaned in, “You could have warned me.”

“And miss the expression of relief on your face? Never,” Sherlock grinned. “Besides I needed to know how quickly you could pick up my cues. Never know when we’ll have to do some quick roleplaying. Cases frequently require some dissembling.”

“Hmm. Yes there is that,” said John sipping his drink. It tasted marvellous. He felt marvellous. “Would you like to go to bed,” he asked impulsively.

Sherlock looked oddly at him. “What? Bed? It’s mid-morning. I’m not tired.”

“I’m not tired either,” said John taking a large swallow.

“Oh!” Sherlock said, finally picking up the cue. “Oh,” and he smiled. “Yes. Are you sure?”

John nodded.

“I’ll order you,” said Sherlock warningly.

“I was rather counting on that,” John responded. Too much so, in fact. The pleasure of sex and the collar together were something that John couldn’t help but be enticed by. Thank goodness they were right at 221B. The neighbours had enough to gossip about without the state of his trousers adding to it.

Just then a police car pulled up to their side. Lestrade leaned out, looking harried, his silver hair spiked up as if it had seen some pulling recently. “Thank goodness I caught you. Hello, John. I suppose you'll be sticking around. Sherlock, how good at you with ciphers?”

“I can be good,” said Sherlock, his eyes darted to John briefly, as if asking for permission.

“Later is fine,” John said softly. He sighed, a little frustrated, but then Sherlock was always happiest on a case, and John did like to see him happy. “Tonight.”

Sherlock grinned widely. “Come upstairs and tell us about it,” said Sherlock to Lestrade, who didn’t seem to make head or tails out of the exchange. John sighed and held the door open for the two of them, then followed them up to the next case.

**The End**


End file.
